


sealed with a kiss

by cherishiskisa



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (well eventually), Epistolary, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Pen Pals, and there will be phone calls and other things later on, and they fall in love eventually ok i promise, so it won't be all letters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-28 05:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 28,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherishiskisa/pseuds/cherishiskisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hello.<br/>My name is Enjolras, and I have been “randomly selected” to be your pen pal for human relations."<br/>And so it begins.<br/>For a year, Enjolras and Grantaire do not meet, do not speak, do not know if the other is even real-- but they write each other letters, as regularly as they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letters, 1

**Author's Note:**

> h ey friends!!!!!!  
> so this is a thing that my best buddy nika (aka tumblr user claque-sous previously babyjolras and ao3 user sherlocklivesinmyattic) and i came up with a lil while back  
> the first two enjolras letters are by her actually but the rest will be by me  
> (sorry for the cheesy title i'll probably change it)  
> ANYWAY it's going to be a long and wacky journey! and i know that a year's worth of letters is a LOT to write out so i'll only post the best ones on here and i'm in the process of making a blog on which all of the others will be posted  
> don't worry friends they'll do a lot more than write letters eventually (there will be phone calls and dramatic first meetings but i don't want to spoil anything l. o . l.)  
> i hope you like this!! it should be p exciting and im rlly excited  
> pls leave me a comment on here so i know what you thought!! or come and talk to me on my tumblr which is grabtaire or just come say hello uwu  
> and with that  
> enjoy

Hello.

My name is Enjolras, and I have been “randomly selected” to be your pen pal for human relations. I am twenty-two years old and I am studying communications, more specifically, political communications, at the Sorbonne. Well, that's the easy answer-- it's a bit complicated. I'm also studying human rights and I'm a bit of a history fanatic on the side.

I have been told that I need to tell you my background. I was conceived and born in London, though both my parents are Parisian and we moved back when I was three months old; thus, French is my mother tongue. I come from a fairly wealthy family. I really don't know how my ancestors became rich, but the money has held through all these years. I lived in the same house for eighteen years (those three months don't count because I was in the NICU as a premature baby). 

I am sorry that this is in a different colour. I was supposed to hand this in yesterday to be mailed with the others, but now I have to mail it by myself, and apparently my friends don't own red pens.

I've also been told to write more by my professor. 

I am an activist. My favorite colour is red, but I think blue is in for a close second. I like coffee more than tea and I get sick often. 

I don't see why we had a deadline for these. Should we be writing them on our own time? And what about students that can't write as fast or have dyslexia or some other disability that makes them unable to turn this in? Do they get an extended time? No. They never do, which just goes to show how fucked our education system is, even as we get older.

Anyway, reply soon, hopefully with a lot to say. 

If you don't, I'll fail this class.

Sincerely,

Enjolras

***

***

Enjolras,

Reply soon? What if I can't? What if I'm busy? WHAT IF I HAVE DYSLEXIA? 

How insensitive of you. 

As it so happens, I don't have dyslexia. My, ah, delightful handwriting might seem contrary to that, but I'm telling the truth. I just really fucked up my handwriting as a kid when I broke a couple of fingers chasing a cat up a tree...

I digress. Am I sorry? Nah. 

I'm Grantaire. I'm older than you are. As you might have noticed, I don't really do small talk. I don't want to tell you about my life, or my family-- it's a boring story. And I'm clearly not as successful as you, despite my not being a preemie, because you're at the Sorbonne and I'm at a community college in my hometown, which I have only left once. Undecided area of study, and I'm in my third year. Hahaha. My sister-- who knows where she is (not me!). My parents are neither rich nor alive. And I've never even been to Paris! Incredible! And you're Mr. International, born in London, living in our fair nation's (heavy sarcasm, of course) capitol... I bet you even intern at Amnesty. 

Speaking of which, you're an activist? Well, that's... typical. I have nothing else to say to that, except a heartily insincere "good luck". 

On an unrelated note: so I'm sat here at my desk, and my roommate just came in and asked me what I was doing. I told him I was writing a letter to some kid from the Sorbonne, and he told me that sounded really gay. "I came out to you three years ago," I said. "We've established that everything I do both sounds and is really gay." He threw a pair of high-heeled shoes at me (his, not mine. We're different sizes, so we can't share :( This sucks because he wears waaaayyy fabulous-er shoes than I do) and left. I'd say that went well. 

You may have noticed that over the course of this letter, I have switched pen colours six times. This serves two purposes: annoying you, and trying to get you to not sweat the small stuff. No one gives a fuck if you write in two different colours. Or six. Or nineteen. As long as what you're saying matters. 

That was cheesy enough that it certainly deserves my pointing out that what I'm saying doesn't matter. I'm switching pen colours ironically. 

My professor doesn't even know my name (I don't show up to class enough) so he won't check my letter for personal details. 

But I guess I should tell you that I'm an artist, in a loose sense of the word. I would call it 'modern' art, but that evokes the mental image of that piece of cheese with hair glued on. That ain't me. I once made a wedding dress out of divorce documents, though, that was fun. Other than that, I paint a lot of murals (read: I graffiti things overnight and almost get arrested and by the same time the next day they've been painted over. It's a metaphor, my friends insist. No it isn't). And I take some art classes at school. I don't have a favourite colour, although I wear a lot of green (colour of my favourite kind of fairy). I don't get sick often. And I take my coffee black. As black as my SOUL. 

So... yeah. My six-colour pen (you should get one, they're great) is digging into my hand and I have other work to do anyway. 

Was this letter long enough for you? Did I use too many parentheses? Sorry, I was distracted; Jake Gyllenhaal is doing an interview on Inside the Actors Studio and I'm kind of watching out of the corner of my eye and oh, how he distracts me. 

Jake Gyllenhaal is the reason my electricity bills are always so high. And my roommate refuses to pay it all (but I guess that's fair, since he spends an equivalent amount of money on drinks for me). Damn you, Jake Gyllenhaal and your delightfully sloped nose!

-Grantaire


	2. Letters, 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear Grantaire... I read your letter about six times... Did you really find the need to mock everything I wrote?"  
> "Enjolras, You read it SIX times? That's dedication. That is VERY flattering. I'll write to everyone I know and tell them all about how someone as BUSY and ACTIVIST-Y as you took the time to read my little letter six whole times. Wow!  
> Yes, I did have to mock everything you wrote."  
> Letters, 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh guys i'm a little bit overwhelmed at what a response this has gotten in such a short time!! i was a little worried that nobody would get it or like it but that's so not the case apparently and yes i will try to update this quickly every time for you (writing letters is p quick anyway). also these are pretty short but i promise the next two are longer  
> uh, quick disclaimer: i actually know very little about france's higher education system  
> oh, and grantaire lives in a town called frouzins, which is a very real city, and is perfect for grantaire. i would link you to the wikipedia page but it's in french.  
> I MADE THE BLOG FOR THIS STORY and an explanation of that will be in the end notes but right now i'm shutting up so you can read part two!! enjoy

Dear Grantaire,

 

I am sorry that my handwriting may be messier today, but I will be writing all in one colour, hopefully, unless this pen decides to die on me. 

We recently lost electricity. Our whole apartment compound did, actually, and I am lousy at writing in the dark.

I read your letter about six times. 

My main questions are - Who is Jake Gyllenhaal (did I spell that correctly?) and Did you really find the need to mock everything I wrote? 

Yes, I am an activist. I am trying t

My roommate is reading over my shoulder and just told me not to drone on about one thing.

I think the lights are turning back on.

Yes, the microwave just beeped. I'm going to eat as I write. (But you can just ignore that.) After that, I'll probably ask my roommate to help me paint my fingernails red again. 

(Very gay, I realize.)

You've never left your hometown? Do you want to? 

(I would like to visit Greece. The last time I went, I was thirteen years old.)

I don't really have much more to say, unlike you. 

I have more questions, I suppose. This is about learning about other people, so, I guess it's typical for me to have questions.

How old is 'older than me'? 

Why is it your friend threw high heeled shoes at you? High heels are very expensive. He could have at least thrown, I don't know, a textbook or something.

Where do you buy six-coloured pens?

***

***

Enjolras,

You read it SIX times? That's dedication. That is VERY flattering. I'll write to everyone I know and tell them all about how someone as BUSY and ACTIVIST-Y as you took the time to read my little letter six whole times. Wow!

Yes, I Did have to mock everything you wrote. 

Yes, you spelled Jake Gyllenhaal's name right. Well done. He's an actor. And he's a hot piece of ass. He has lovely hair begging to be pulled, you know? Damn. Why is it that all the best men are straight (Jake-- although his role in Brokeback Mountain was ALMOST AS GAY AS ME), fictional (Draco Malfoy, man), or dicks (my roommate [just kidding. He's lovely. But he's already seeing someone and he won't even make out with me. Friendzoned!])??

By "older than you", I mean "older than you". Don't ask stupid questions. 

(I'm nearly twenty-four. I got held back a grade. And I took a gap year.)

Your fingernails are red? Mine are silver and pink! ~twinsies~

My roommate throws high-heeled shoes at me because he can afford to. Selfish bastard spends all his money on designer shit and not on his loving roommate. I'm supposed to be his best friend, and he has never even bought me Nutella! My favourite snack! Ugh. What has the world come to, when modern friendships don't even involve tasty hazelnut treats?

Does YOUR roommate buy you tasty hazelnut treats? Since they kept you from droning on about activism (thanks), it seems like they're pretty cool and the kind of person who would buy their friends Nutella. 

I'm glaring at my roommate and hoping he'll get the hint. He's reading Seventeen Magazine and watching a playlist of Lana del Rey (LOVE HER) music videos out of the corner of his eye. What a queer. Aren't we queers supposed to buy each other sweet things?? Whatever happened to gay pride and unifying with your homosexual brethren?? WHERE IS MY NUTELLA??

Make a petition, Mr. Activist Man. "Get Grantaire Nutella".

I didn't say I've never left Frouzins. I've left once. For my gap year. 

Six-coloured pens, you innocent little baby, can be bought online or in various stationery stores...

He didn't throw a textbook at me because then I would be dead. He's studying some weird science shit and their textbooks are massive. And, as much of a downer as I am in real life, and as much as I almost drink myself to death on a biweekly basis, I think he would rather prefer that I be alive than a sexy corpse/spooky ghost. 

Sorry for the bad handwriting on my end; yours was fine. I'm a little bit high right now. To make up for the lack of quality content in this letter, I have drawn a picture on the back for you. I hope you like it. Xoxoxo. 

 

 

Not high anymore. It's two in the morning and my roommate is snoring. Either that or he's having sex and is making really bizarre sounds. Maybe through one of those voice-altering programs? Kinky. 

No, he's snoring. Eww. He doesn't normally do that. Maybe he has a cold. Ugh, that means I'll have to make him soup and knit him scarves. Ughhhhhh. 

Our apartment complex loses electricity a lot, but that's because we're poor as fuck. I mean, we're at a community college, it isn't exactly Versailles or the Sorbonne (same thing). 

By the way-- I don't know how I forgot to mention this-- you can call me R. It's a pun. Grand-R. Get it? That's the magnum opus of my life, that nickname. Yeah. Gives you a sense of what my life has been so far. 

OH NO I'M GETTING SAD BETTER GO DRINK MY WOES AWAY

-Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h i there buddies i hope you have continued to not hate the story  
> the blog is at lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire.tumblr.com! you can ask me stuff about the timelines, you can ask me to write missing moments (e.g. enjolras' reactions as he reads grantaire's first letter), you can ask me to write out detailed descriptions of events that are only mentioned in passing in the letters, etc. etc. etc. in the event that i don't end up publishing EVERY SINGLE LETTER on ao3, all of the ones i write will be on the blog. head on over there and follow it or something  
> and please please please leave a comment!! i love getting feedback because i love knowing how i can improve my writing or what y'all like so i can write more of the same  
> you can comment here or send me feedback on my personal which is grabtaire.tumblr.com and i track the tags "lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire" and "sealed with a kiss fic" just so you know  
> anyway i'm going to wrap up this silly rambling  
> thanks so much for reading ah i'll try to post the next series as soon as possible! xx


	3. Letters, 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R (that's a very good pun, incidentally), I hope your roommate gets better soon. I get sick easily, like I've mentioned, and it's up to my roommate to take care of me. He doesn't complain, but I know how irritating it is. For your and your sanity's sake, I hope he's alright and not catching cold."  
> "Enjolras, So yeah, Bahorel (roommate) did end up getting sick. He's been staying at home as I toil away at work and at school, and then I come home and cook him meals which he eats in front of the TV. Is this what it felt like to be a woman in the Soviet Union?"  
> Letters, 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi buddies!! thanks so much for all your comments and kudos and follows and stuff i'm so overwhelmed this is amazing i love you all  
> reminder that the blog is at lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire so head on over and give it a follow and send me a request for a missing moment you'd like to see or something (i know there haven't been many so far but there eventually will be)  
> oh this is the first enjolras letter that is fully written by me jsyk  
> enjoy the letters and pls comment or send me asks or whatever!! i love feedback!! kiss kiss

Dear R (that's a very good pun, incidentally),

I took the time out of my busy, activist-y schedule to read your most recent letter over a few times. I still didn't understand how any of it tied together, so I read it aloud to my roommate. He commented on none of it except the end, only to say that 'alcohol is a depressant, so when you drink when you're already sad, it only makes it worse'. He's a medical student. There you go. 

I don't know if he's ever bought me Nutella specifically, but we always seem to have a jar of it in the pantry. 

(By the way, I'm pretty sure gay pride doesn't involve buying each other snacks. Pretty sure.)

(And if all of us homosexuals were 'brethren', that would lead to quite a lot of incest, and I'd rather not think about that.)

(Oh, and I'm not making you a petition. I can direct you to some websites where you can make your own, though.)

What's Frouzins like? I don't think I've ever been that far south, despite having family in the Provence region...

My roommate wants to know if you speak Occitan. 

Where did you go on your gap year?

I'm going to look into getting a six-colour pen; I'm sure it would make taking notes for school much easier. 

Who is Lana del Rey? I'm sorry, I don't get much exposure to popular culture. 

I really don't know how you manage to write so much. I'm sure as many things happen in my life as in yours-- if not more, due to my activism-- but I somehow can't write as much about them as you do. If I were to do that, I would bore you with details about my various causes, as my roommate told me not to do. 

I looked up Jake Gyllenhaal. He's not my type, but I'm sure he has many merits as an actor. 

Versailles and the Sorbonne have nothing in common. Please don't compare them ever again. 

The picture was very nice, despite my not condoning illegal mind-altering substances that cause highs. I liked the cat. 

What classes do you have to take, as an undecided student in the artsy side of things? Most of my friends are in the law or pre-law track-- with the exception of Prouvaire, who is studying classical literature-- so I don't really know how that works. Do you like being an artist? It sounds interesting, although I've never been good at art (my parent signed me up for classes when I was little. I failed miserably) and don't know much about art beyond the greats of France and some impressionists, etc. 

I hope your roommate gets better soon. I get sick easily, like I've mentioned, and it's up to my roommate to take care of me. He doesn't complain, but I know how irritating it is. For your and your sanity's sake, I hope he's alright and not catching cold. 

Write back as soon as you can, allowing for dyslexia and reading capabilities. 

Enjolras

(I tried to write this letter in a slightly less formal style, and in a more non-linear way; I tried to imitate your letters' form, to a certain extent. Combeferre-- my roommate-- assures me that learning to loosen up my conversation will help me in my future career. I am not convinced, but I am willing to try. How did I do? Which style do you prefer?)

***

***

Enjolras,

Was that... sarcasm I detected? I'm incredibly proud of you. In the three letters I've gotten from you so far, you've grown so much! I'm crying happy, maternal tears. 

I'm glad you liked the drawing. I have done another one on the back of this page, with more cats this time for you. I hope I can fit everything I have to say on this side of the paper, or otherwise I'll have to get another sheet from ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE ROOM (since my roommate, who did end up getting sick, refuses to help me out in any small way like bringing me a piece of paper or writing a four-page long essay for me. Selfish dick).

You ask a lot of questions. Curiosity killed the activist-- have you never heard that idiom?

Anyway, I'll answer them in a numbered list:

1\. Frouzins is very small. 

2\. I speak Occitan. 

3\. I went to Bordeaux. 

4\. Lana del Rey is a musician. You won't like her, because you seem like the kind of person who would have boring music taste. She's really cool, though. 

5\. I take a lot of classes. It's kind of an artsy college, and it's named after Picasso. I'm in art history, and figure drawing, and composition, and a few free periods in which I sketch and sculpt and stuff. 

6\. I don't like being a student of art, because there's a lot of work. But I know I would be even unhappier doing anything else, so. I like being an artist because I make my own schedule and my own deadlines (unless I have a commission) and I do whatever I want. 

7\. You did well. 

8\. Informal, although it'll take a while to get used to. 

Okay, I KNOW you're dying to tell me about your activism. Fine, go ahead. Be warned that I'll probably skim over reading those few paragraphs in your next letter. I don't really care, sorry. As a self-determined nihilist, I don't care about much of anything. Or, at least, I claim not to. 

What do you do in your free time, if you even have any? Do you watch documentaries? Do you harass coffee shop employees until they tell you that their coffee isn't fair-trade? Do you sit on the riverbank and sigh at the waterfowl and tourists? I wouldn't be surprised. 

If Jake Gyllenhaal isn't your type, who is? I find him the paragon of male attractiveness. Well, one of them. I also like a lot of male models, and Lord Byron, and some of my friends. I met a really nice-looking stripper once, too, and that was fun. I've drawn a caricature in the margin for your enjoyment. 

Clearly, your roommate-- med student or not-- has never actually gotten drunk whilst sad. Alcohol is a miracle worker. Tell him so. 

I'm glad you like the pun! I came up with it when I was high one day. And I was very proud of myself for a few weeks. 

So yeah, Bahorel (roommate) did end up getting sick. He's been staying at home as I toil away at work and at school, and then I come home and cook him meals which he eats in front of the TV. Is this what it felt like to be a woman in the Soviet Union?

Great, now you've infected me with the 'I don't know what to say' virus. I don't know what to say. Thanks, asshole. 

Anyway, to make up for all this blank space-- I wrote small because I thought I'd be able to write more than this-- I'm going to draw you another picture. Enjoy. 

Until the next time,

Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also what do you think: should i just keep all the letters on the ao3, and make the "fluff" letters into longer chapters? like i've just written, like, 3 about their friends, which is plot-unnecessary but would be confusing to be left out  
> so i'll probably do that unless somebody stops me  
> the tumblr (lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire) will probably be just for extra ficlets or whatever  
> again, please let me know what you thought, and tune in next time for more awkward epistolary flirting~~


	4. Letters, 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, You asked about my activism. It's not that I've been dying to tell you about it-- it's just a major part of my life, and if I don't talk about it within the context of a personal introduction, it's impossible to get a clear picture of who I am.  
> So, without further ado..."  
> "Enjolras, You guess right, I don't care about your activism. My reaction consists of that one Russian proverb, loosely translated as "it doesn't matter how the infant amuses itself, as long as it does not cry". I guess the way you amuse yourself is by crying, though. Oh, well."  
> Letters, 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow buddies im amaze so many people are still reading this  
> i've just written letters 7 and wow im excite and i was thinking about them meeting in real life last night and couldn't fall asleep because of how excited i was so yeah it's gonna be a hell of a ride!!!!!!  
> the blog is, again, lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire, feel free to head on over there and give me a prompt or s/t  
> also disclaimer that enjolras' politics and grantaire's politics don't necessarily reflect my own ok these are just my expressions of their characters, not of my views  
> enjoy the chapter!!

Dear R,

That isn't a real idiom. (I checked.)

I don't have a lot of free time, but I spend as much of it as I can with my friends. 

Sorry to hear about your roommate and his cold. You're good to take care of him, I suppose. 

I looked up Lana del Rey. She's not my kind of musician, you were right (although my taste in music isn't boring. I just don't have much of one beyond the riot songs of the late 1999s-early 2000s and classical music). 

The drawings were very nice, thank you. I'm not quite sure what the one on the bottom of the page was, though. It looked like they were animals, but anthropomorphised? I think one of them was a fox? I could be interpreting it all wrong-- like I said, I'm usually not one to know a lot about art. 

Still, you're very talented. 

 

Sorry, I've just gone and had lunch. I'm back now. 

You asked about my activism. It's not that I've been dying to tell you about it-- it's just a major part of my life, and if I don't talk about it within the context of a personal introduction, it's impossible to get a clear picture of who I am. 

So, without further ado:

You were right, I do intern at Amnesty. And in my time outside of work, I run a student activist organisation, similar to Spartacus Youth or the JCR. Since most of us are members of the GSM community, we fight for queer rights, and also feminism, rights of the lower classes-- actually, we're trying to dismantle the class system altogether-- and things like that. We passionately protest the death penalty, rape culture, racism, capitalism, police brutality, totalitarianism, and war. 

But don't mistake us for pacifists: violence, if necessary, solves lots of problems, when it's organised by the groups affected. Wars never solve anything, but revolutions are just what the people need (Combeferre often disagrees with me about this).  

We write letters and petitions, and have a lot of rallies (that turn into riots, more often than not). And we host weekly meetings at student-run cafés where we educate anybody who wants to join us. 

You're a nihilist? I'm not surprised. Does that mean you don't care about any sociopolitical issues at all? Even as a gay man without overwhelming economic privilege yourself? That's surprising. 

If you'd like me to send you some pamphlets, let me know. 

(I'm sure you wouldn't like me to, though. I realise that you don't care, which is unfortunate.)

Anyway, that's my activism. I plan to pursue a career in politics, or maybe just law, so I try not to get overly involved in riots, but that never works out too well. 

Thank you for asking. 

What sort of things do you normally depict in your art? I know a lot of artists have a "muse" of sorts, or a recurring motif in their work. Do you have something like that?

...again, I know next to nothing about art. I'm sorry. 

What's the weather like down south? It's very cold here at the moment, but it's usually at least chilly in Paris. 

I've never been to Bordeaux. Was your gap year fun? I wanted to take one, for a while, but eventually, my parents convinced me otherwise (mostly through threatening to take away a large part of my monthly allowance, which I need to pay copy centres for the printing of posters and leaflets). 

Oh, speaking of posters and leaflets, I have a meeting tonight. I suppose my next letter will have to be longer, but I have to go and plan out my opening statements and agenda for this meeting. 

Write back as soon as, etc.,

Enjolras

***

***

Enjolras,

It's a real idiom now. I declare it one. 

Christ, you ask a lot of questions. I don't know how you manage to come up with so many things to ask me about my boring-ass life. Here's a question for you: do you actually care, or are you just being polite? If you're just being polite, don't bother. 

If you actually care, you're fucked up. 

By the time you get this letter, Bahorel My Roommate will no longer be sick, but will continue to have a pissy attitude because of all the schoolwork he has to make up now. Guess who has to deal with it and try to appease him with makeup and bad American movies? Yeah. Me. 

Greeeaaaatt. 

I'm running low on booze, and I missed work a couple times this week so I could make Bahorel soup, so I don't have money to buy more. This is probably why I'm in a shitty mood today, more so than usual. 

You guess right, I don't care about your activism. My reaction consists of that one Russian proverb, loosely translated as "it doesn't matter how the infant amuses itself, as long as it does not cry". I guess the way you amuse yourself is by crying, though. Oh, well. 

I depict a lot of stuff in my art. No, I don't have a recurring theme. It's just whatever I'm getting paid for or whatever I'm in the mood for. 

The weather down here is warm. It's the south of France. Duh. 

My gap year in Bordeaux was fine. I don't describe it unless I absolutely have to. 

So, about your accusation that I don't care about anything: I care about lots of things. As a gay man, yeah, I care about marriage equality and the fight against homophobia. Do I do anything about it, beyond literally fighting bigots? Nah. That, at least, is a battle we'll win, even if the journey is slow. 

When it comes to "oppression" and "subjugation", you have to have noticed that humanity travels in cycles. Do you want the working class to overthrow the state, and rule the people the way the people want to be ruled? It'll turn into a dictatorship. Case in point: any country that converted to communism. Poverty rates cycle. Unemployment rates cycle. Inflation leads to the downfall of minimum wage, causing more suffering. It's all a cycle, influenced by things far greater than a little group of student activists. We mere mortals can't change any of this. It's the money, and the machine. They run this motherfucker, not girls (sorry, Beyonce). 

Overthrow the government, fine. Start a new one, fine. But eventually, a group of people will be dissatisfied with the way you do things, and will howl "OPPRESSION" at you until you step aside. And they'll take power, and the whole damn thing will start over. 

It's pointless. Politics isn't about people: it's about profit. That's fucked up, everybody knows that, but it will never change. The whole point of government is to oppress the losers, that's what it's based around, trying to change it is futile and self-destructive. 

There will always be social classes. There will always be oppression. You may as well give up now. 

Sorry, this would normally be a lot more eloquent and backed up with references to literature, but I've had a really long day and I need a drink. So. 

Anyway, I accidentally seem to have cared more than I wanted to, so I'm going to change the subject. 

Lana del Rey is great, yo. She's obsessive and drugged-up and has all these daddy issues but she's also really pretty and dainty and yeah, she's like a genderbent version of the me I want to be. 

Technically, I don't have daddy issues anymore-- or do your daddy issues increase after your dad dies? I haven't really gathered enough data yet to compare. 

What's it like, having parents who care?

Or... having parents? It's not been that long, but I can't really remember. 

That just goes to show what shitty parents they were. 

Whatever. Sorry I'm being such a dick today-- did I mention I'm really tired? Maybe my next letter will be cheerier, but then again, you never know with diagnosed-but-untreated depression. 

I've drawn a picture for you on the back, enjoy. 

 

Sorry if I hurt your feelings with my anti-activism. I tend not to think about what I say, and even when I do, I think that writing with lots of stuff crossed out looks dumb. So. It's all staying in. 

 

You might not write back, and that's okay, whatever. This always happens. 

 

Sorry,

Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh yeah sorry grantaire did a thing  
> but it's ok i mean it's grantaire  
> don't worry friends  
> and pls leave me a review on here or pop me an ask on tumblr i looooove feedback!! uwu!! thanks for reading~


	5. Letters, 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, I don't know why you would assume that I wouldn't write back. In your rant, you said nothing that I hadn't heard before from the mouths of people with far more political and social influence than you. You certainly said nothing to offend me, personally, although my morals are a little indignant."  
> "Enjolras, Sorry for the tone of my last letter! This one will be much cheerier, as I've spent my most recent hard-earned paycheck on a few bottles of liquid happiness (again: tell your roommate to get drunk when he's sad and then try to tell me that alcohol is a depressant. I dare you)."  
> Letters, 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi buddies!! look i made it all better  
> yes i don't know what else to say up here except the usual "the blog is lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire go send it stuff" and "thank you so much for reading i'm amazed at the response i've gotten and pls review or send me an ask on my personal which is grabtaire"  
> thanks for reading!!!!!!   
> kiss kiss i'll see y'all next time

Dear R,

I didn't know all my questions bothered you; I can stop asking so many. I genuinely do care, and I don't think you have a "boring-ass" life. (Also, Combeferre has often advised me that a good way to maintain a relationship with somebody, be it for business or personal reasons, is allowing them to talk about themselves and showing interest.) Our lives are very different, and although the phrase "how the other half lives" makes me feel slightly ill, that is, essentially, the root of my interest in your life. We have very different life stories and experiences-- is my wanting to know how they differ really so surprising?

I don't know why you would assume that I wouldn't write back. In your rant, you said nothing that I hadn't heard before from the mouths of people with far more political and social influence than you. You certainly said nothing to offend me, personally, although my morals are a little indignant. 

I'm not going to respond to much of what you said in your letter about activism and society; you don't need convincing because you don't appear to have a desire to go out into the world and see it, and you're also not prominent enough in my daily life (as you would be if you also went to my university, for example) that I could take the time to carefully debate with you and convince you to change your mind (also, you seem to be a bit of a lost cause, anyway). 

I'm sorry you had a bad day when you wrote to me, and I'm sorry your depression is diagnosed but untreated. Combeferre suggests healthy eating and regular exercise to raise your spirits. Not drinking, because, again, alcohol is a depressant and will only exacerbate your condition when you come down from the high. 

I tried listening to Lana del Rey again. I still don't quite see the appeal, I'm sorry, although when you explain it like that, it makes sense why you like her. 

My parents and I have a strange relationship. I have found that the more money someone has, the less they care about their family. This holds true for my parents-- they'll buy me anything I want, but it's been six years since they've given me a birthday card with writing on it beyond "Dear Enjolras" and their names under the generic, printed greeting. I realise that's a very first-world sort of problem, and I really don't care about this issue. This is more of an observation. 

I'm an only child, so when I was young, any attention my parents could spare was lavished on me (it wasn't much). Now, they're tolerant of my sexuality and barely put up with my activism. They don't really interfere with my life; all they care about is my not spoiling the family name. I make no promises in that regard. They send me a monthly allowance, but never really ask about how I am. I grew up distant from them, and nannies took care of me until I ended my third year of elementary school. 

I'm sorry if I sound like I'm complaining; that wasn't my original intent. Honestly, I'm fine with being given little attention by my parents. We differ in our politics. 

I think you mentioned that you have a sister? Yes, I've just found that in your first letter. What was growing up with a sibling like? Some of my friends have younger and older siblings, but everybody's experience is different, as I have said. 

It seems like you've gone out of the frying pan and into the flames with your roommate's cold (now there's an actual idiom for you). My other med student friend Joly advises not coming into close contact with him for a while: he may still be contagious. Also, he says that drinking tea with citrus and honey will "raise spirits and contribute to a sense of well-being!" I'm going to take his word for it. 

The meeting went well. I know you didn't ask, but it's on my mind, and I'm running out of things to write about. There were a few new faces and some really good discussions. We've got a demonstration coming up soon, so we planned for that. It was good. 

I hope you feel better. 

Write back etc.,

 

Enjolras

***

***

Enjolras,

Sorry for the tone of my last letter! This one will be much cheerier, as I've spent my most recent hard-earned paycheck on a few bottles of liquid happiness (again: tell your roommate to get drunk when he's sad and then try to tell me that alcohol is a depressant. I dare you). 

You didn’t say anything in response to the lovely picture I drew you-- I assume that means you didn’t like it? I thought it was nice. I like drawing Versailles, it’s very geometrically pleasing to the artist’s eye.

I’m listening to Lana right now. Lemme tell you, you’re missing out.

You said you liked the riot songs of the 90s and 00s and classical music. That’s a really weird combination of music, but hey, I’m not judging. Do you have any recommendations, beyond, like, Bikini Kill and Green Day?

(What if I bought Versailles stationery and wrote every future letter to you on it?)

Ooh, we should talk about music. Although, I listen to a lot of really trashy top-40 American pop, and you’d judge me for it. See, I started out listening to it in an ironic way, but then… it stopped being ironic, and, to quote Miley Cyrus, “we can’t stop, and we won’t stop.” (This song also features the immortal lines “we run things, things don’t run we” and “only God can judge ya, forget the haters, ‘cause somebody loves ya”-- I think this is a good song for you, actually.)

No, let’s not talk about music. You’ll think I’m even more ridiculous than you already do, I’m sure.

Bahorel is all better now. Tell your pretty friend thank you for the tea suggestion. Bahorel doesn’t drink a lot of tea unless he’s on a date with someone he wants to impress, but when he grudgingly allowed me to brew him a cup or two, he admitted that he felt better. So, thanks for that. Now our lives can go back to normal.

Oh, but my six-colour pen ran out of blue ink :( I’ll have to either find a replacement cartridge thing or go buy a completely new one. This is why my last few letters have been in black.

I don’t really want to talk about my sister, thanks.

Have I told you about work? I haven’t, have I. I have a few odd jobs around town, but the one I like the best is at this one coffee shop. (I also work at a toy store [like, an actual one, for children; not a sex toy store, to my constant dismay] and, if I have nothing better to do, I take a shift at my cousin’s bakery.) Anyway, I work with

Shit, I haven’t even told you about my friends!

I’m going to tell you about my friends this time, and you can tell me about your friends if you decide to write back (ha). I’ll tell you about work next time.

Wow, I’m in a really good mood today. Who bought this tequila? It was Bahorel. Thanks, Bahorel!

Anyway, my friends. Yes, I have them. I know, it’s unbelievable.

We’re all a rough-and-tumble little group of angry/sad queers and everybody hates us, but we think we’re fabulous.

My roommate and unofficial (because the others would get offended if I made it official) best friend is Bahorel, whom you’re already acquainted with. He’s almost 2 metres tall, he’s the most muscular person I’ve ever met, he has tons of tattoos, and he only wears pastel colours. His collection of high heels is fabulous. He has an undercut and a tongue piercing. Yeah, he’s pretty cool, but he can also be super rude, and he still hasn’t bought me any Nutella, despite my continuous complaints.

(I’ll draw you a picture of all of these losers at some point, I promise.)

Next is Bossuet, whom I’ve known very vaguely since early childhood. We grew up on the same block, but never really became friends until college started. He’s completely bald, loves soap operas (secretly), has a wardrobe that he built himself out of his ex-ex-ex-girlfriend’s favourite tree (he dated around a lot before realising that he was miserable in all of those relationships because he’s GAY okay well that’s not fair his exes are all really awful and technically he’s bi but you know what it’s still a valid point), carries several boxes of Band-Aids around with him at all times because he gets slight injuries a lot, and has a lovely collection of Oxford-style shoes. They’re really cute. Again, I can’t borrow them for the same reason I can’t borrow Bahorel’s heels: we’re different sizes. Ugh, my life is so hard.

Last and certainly not least is my darling Feuilly. He’s an orphan, just like me, but has been for most of his life. He works all the same jobs as I do, which means I get to see him a lot! (He isn’t a student, even though he occasionally drops into art classes that I’m in just for fun.) He’s got a ton of freckles, and he’s got a great sense of humour even though he’s pretty quiet. Feuilly is dating Bahorel in a casual open relationship type of thing. I sometimes drag him along to various martial arts classes if he has time.

So, uh, yeah. Besides Combeferre and the pretty one, what are your friends like?

This letter is really long! I could say a lot more about my friends, but I think I’ve used up my exclamation point quota for the day.

So, I’ll close up this letter.

Actually, Bahorel just came in and yelled in my general direction. What did he yell? “Hey, R, do you remember that time you were really drunk and you asked me if England had the same moon?”

Thanks, Bahorel.

 

-Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh also this letter series and the next one is kinda fluff so like yeah sorry about that but i couldn't let go i couldn't publish these on the blog and not here so y eh a  
> i hope u like my descriptions of the friends oh man i probably fucked up bad but oh well we'll see  
> MWAH


	6. Letters, 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear Grantaire, Throughout your letter, you kept referring to one of my friends as “the pretty one,” and I’m not sure to whic
> 
> Oh.
> 
> Oh, you mean Joly.
> 
> Oh, that’s very clever.
> 
> I have taken a moment to explain the joke to Combeferre. He made a face at me and went on reading."  
> "Enjolras, I'm glad you liked my pun about Joly. I worked hard on it."  
> Letters, 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi buddies!!  
> so: a warning in advance: my family is moving house this coming monday and i'm not quite sure if i'll have internet access on that day and on tuesday etc (monday is when i'm supposed to update next but i'll see if i can do it at school ah)  
> anyway i hope y'all are still enjoying this story! this morning i've done some planning for what's going to happen when they actually meet and WOW IT'S GOING TO BE SO GREAT and this story could be SERIOUSLY long and i might turn it into a series because there's just SO MUCH I WANT TO HAPPEN so yeah  
> lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire is this story's tumblr; my personal is grabtaire; come say hello!! enjoy the chapter kiss kiss

Dear Grantaire,

(If you wrote me letters on Versailles stationery I would stop writing back.)

(Probably.)

Throughout your letter, you kept referring to one of my friends as “the pretty one,” and I’m not sure to whic

Oh.

Oh, you mean Joly.

Oh, that’s _very_ clever.

I have taken a moment to explain the joke to Combeferre. He made a face at me and went on reading.

(He’s just stopped reading to say, “But Enjolras, everyone we know has made that joke before.” I’ve never heard it, though, so I’m not convinced.)

I’d be happy to describe my friends to you. Unfortunately, I can’t promise you any pictorial representations, because, as I have mentioned previously, I’m no artist.

I’m glad you’re in a better mood, by the way. Your handwriting becomes far easier to read when you’re in a better mood.

All right, here’s a description of my friends:

Combeferre is my best friend, and has been for a very long time. Neither of us can remember when we first became friends, only that we can’t remember not being friends. He wears glasses and is studying philosophy and medicine. He is the most intelligent person I’ve ever met, gets extremely enthusiastic about science, has a quietly but bitingly sarcastic sense of humour, and is great with children. He’s one of the last few genuine Renaissance men left around, because he knows a lot about everything, or so it seems.

Courfeyrac is my other best friend, and all three of us together form a sort of trio that is the main branch of our activist group (it’s called Les Amis de l’ABC, by the way; I don’t think I’ve mentioned that yet). He’s extremely intelligent, wonderful at networking and making friends, passionate about all of our causes (alarmingly so, when it comes to riots), and likes wearing those pants that are in bright colours and are hemmed too short at the ankle on purpose.

Joly-- the pretty one-- is also a medical student. He can give Courfeyrac a run for his money when it comes to being chipper all the time, even though he’s a bit of a hypochondriac. And yes, he is rather pretty, despite not being my type. He makes a lot of jokes, too, and we make a lot of puns about him (for example, we add L’s to his name and-- no, you know what, it’s too long of a joke to explain. Maybe some other time).

Jean Prouvaire, who likes to be called Jehan, is a poet. Similar to you, he has days when he’s very happy, and days when he’s very unhappy. He longs for the Romantic movement to come back, and has a fashion sense that is, occasionally, painful to look at. He sometimes braids my hair when I’m studying for an exam and I never complain, because he’s really rather good at it and it helps my hair not go everywhere.

There’s also Marius Pontmercy, who is Courfeyrac’s roommate. I don’t usually list him with our friends, since he rarely comes to our meetings, and he and I differ considerably in politics. Still, he has a brilliant mind, and there is strength in numbers.

There are a couple of women who occasionally come to our meetings, but I don’t know them too well. Musichetta is with Joly, and Cosette is one of Marius’s good friends (I’m not sure, but I think he wants to date her? I’m not sure. I don’t really pay attention to Pontmercy’s love life). They provide a much-needed perspective to our meetings, and I always value whatever input they have greatly.

There are several other members of the group who show up to meetings semi-regularly, but I’m afraid I don’t know them as well as I should. As I have said, networking and making friends is Courfeyrac’s area.

My friends are extremely important to me. I feel like I don’t tell them that nearly enough.

So that’s a brief description of all of them. Of course, they’re all extremely complex, and I’ve given you the most basic of outlines of them.

We have a meeting tonight, but it’s also my half-birthday (according to Courfeyrac), so I’m assuming not many people will be there and we won’t get much done. Courfeyrac places great value in half-birthdays and their celebration.

Combeferre has finished his book and, upon looking over my shoulder, has announced that this letter is quite long enough, so I suppose I’ll wrap it up.

Write back soon etc.,

 

Enjolras

***

***

Enjolras,

Your friends sound SOOOOO CUTE.

Even though you, like, don’t know anything about their personal lives.

It’s your half-birthday? Well, it was when you sent your letter. That means that your actual birthday is on… the 3rd of April. Hm. I’d been assuming that your birthday was on the 14th of July this whole time.

Happy belated half-birthday.

I’m going to tell you about work now.

To be quite honest, there’s not much to tell. I like working at the coffee shop best, because I like coffee, and I like working with Bahorel and Bossuet and Feuilly. That’s the only time I get to be with all of them at once, usually. That’s when we get all of our gossip in. Plus, I get to pick the music that plays in the shop, and although I have to pick the usual dumb singer-songwriter shit that you always hear at Starbucks, I also get to squeeze in a couple of my favourite songs every now and then.

The toy store job is alright, because I like working with kids. But the uniform is really stupid, and I don’t look good in yellow. Not that shade of yellow, anyway. And, more often than not, instead of dealing with kids I have to deal with uppity parents who think that just because I’m a minimum-wage worker I don’t understand French or basic mathematics. Or logic. Or that their child is having a birthday and needs ONE MILLION PRESENTS BEFORE TOMORROW NO I DON’T CARE THAT YOU DON’T HAVE ONE MILLION PRESENTS IN STOCK I NEED ONE MILLION PRESENTS. TOMORROW.

Maybe I’m exaggerating. Maybe.

And my cousin’s bakery is nice because I’m allowed a few freebie pastries every time I come in. That’s especially cool when I have exams in school, which is when I get too busy to eat regularly and need to stuff myself full of sugar in order to function. I’m not allowed to bake anything, though, not since the Incident (the Incident involved a penis-shaped apple pastry that was not supposed to be penis-shaped. I didn’t claim responsibility then and I’m not claiming responsibility now).

I’ve also recently applied for a job at a makeup store. If I get it, it should be a lot of fun.

One time, I was a substitute art teacher at one of the elementary schools. That’s never happening again. Apparently, you’re not supposed to smoke in front of the kids. Or swear. Or encourage them to paint nudes.

Oops.

(Maybe not all of that happened. I can’t really remember.)

So yeah. Work. 

I'm assuming you don't have a job, since you get a monthly allowance from your parents. 

Oh, but you intern at Amnesty. I'm not going to ask what it's like because I don't really care. 

I'm glad you liked my pun about Joly. I worked hard on it. 

What do you think about that thing that America did? I think it’s really funny, I mean, in theory. Obviously, people that aren’t rich white male politicians are suffering, but the fact that the government did a tantrum thing and then SHUT ITSELF DOWN while it continued to wail and cry is pretty funny.

I’ve drawn America having a temper tantrum on the back of the paper for you. You can show it to all your cute friends and they’ll probably get righteously angry about the moneybags in Congress continuing to get paid while they fuck everything up around them.

I asked Bahorel what he thinks about the government shutdown:

“Our government shut down?”

“No, America’s.”

“Oh.” [laughter] “I’m not surprised. Hasn’t their government been shut down for years? That’s what it seems like.”

…yeah.

I’ve run out of things to say, again, and Bahorel has promised to take me out for drinks since he’s feeling completely better and wants to make up for all the suffering I went through playing nurse. I’m going to seal this letter up before I can come back home, roaringly drunk, and add a lot of illegible ramblings to the bottom of the page.

What are you going to be for Halloween?

Until the next time,

Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also yo i hope you like my characterisation of all of les amis because i'm nervous about it  
> i'm actually pretty in love with my combeferre lol oops  
> but ye AH SEE ALL OF YOU NEXT TIME MWAH


	7. Letters, 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, I've had a rather tough week. When I plan events, I tend to succumb to stress, and I lose my temper often. I snapped at a couple of volunteers and even made a couple of people leave. It's only because I had a lot of schoolwork on top of it: I'm not usually quite that bad. 
> 
> So... yes. I'm rather tired, and I need sleep and food, but I'm writing to you instead. I suppose it's a routine, now, and it doesn't take much brain power, and it's a bit of a therapeutic activity. 
> 
> Actually, maybe I'll just tell you about everything that causes me to become stressed (it'll be a long letter). It could be... cathartic."  
> "Enjolras, 
> 
> I really wasn't expecting that from you! You're just full of surprises. 
> 
> Don't apologise, though. You have every right to complain, even though your problems are very first-world and white-boy. 
> 
> I'm kidding. Your problems are, of course, legitimate (Bahorel, on a lark, once took a class on being a therapist, and he claims this is something people say that is genuinely comforting on a deep level. I'm not convinced)."  
> Letters, 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi buddies look at me posting a chapter even though a moving truck is coming in like half an hour to take my internet away  
> this is the first chapter in which i really started to like enjolras and i hope you do too (i know grantaire is easy to like and all but enjolras is lovely too friends i promise)  
> a N Y WAY i'll get the next one posted as soon as i can; until then, the blog is lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire and my personal is grabtaire; come say hello!

Dear R,

I think lots of things about America’s shutdown, but I’m not going to bore you with the details. However, I will say that America, over the past few years, has made a consistent fool of itself in its attempts to be a beacon of righteousness and capitalism to the world. For example, its refusal to lift the embargo with Cuba, its absolutely ridiculous ideas when it comes to Syria, that Orwellian institution known as the NSA, and, most recently, the shutdown. It’s a mess, but America tends to be that way. 

Since my internship at Amnesty isn't paid as highly as it should be (I don't mind) I don't really count it as a job; it's interesting to hear about yours, though. Do you have any way to pay for your classes or living arrangements aside from work, like a fund that you have?

I'm sorry if I'm being insensitive. Combeferre called me out for being insensitive thrice this week, and it's only Tuesday. 

I've had a rather tough week. 

I may have mentioned that we're planning a demonstration? Yes. It happened. It didn't go too well. I didn't get arrested, but I did get detained for a little while. I didn't need stitches or anything, so at least that's a plus. 

But when I plan events, I tend to succumb to stress, and I lose my temper often. I snapped at a couple of volunteers (thankfully, Courfeyrac resolved the issue and soothed their hurt feelings-- I can be vicious when I'm angry, or so I have been told) and even made a couple of people leave. It's only because I had a lot of schoolwork on top of it: I'm not usually quite that bad. 

So... yes. I'm rather tired, and I need sleep and food, but I'm writing to you instead. I suppose it's a routine, now, and it doesn't take much brain power, and it's a bit of a therapeutic activity. 

Actually, maybe I'll just tell you about everything that causes me to become stressed (it'll be a long letter). It could be... cathartic. 

To begin with, school. My professors liked me at the beginning of the year (to a certain extent) because they saw how much I already knew about the topics we covered, but now they rarely ask for my voice in group discussions and don't enjoy talking to me outside of class about ways I can supplement my learning. I have a lot of work which I often can't keep up with because of my activism, and they have taken to refusing to give me extended times on essays and other papers. I don't know what I did to offend them in this way. Did my parents say something? Or did I make a comment that was insulting to my professors' personal politics?

I don't know. 

Next, the activism. Your words from earlier may have gotten to me-- I don't know-- but I am starting to see the futility of many of our actions. I even cancelled a planned sit-in because I didn't see the point of it anymore. I still believe that, in the end, we will make a change, but I'm not sure we're going about it in the right way. 

My friends don't help. They have names for me like 'Fearless Leader' or 'Apollo', that make me seem hardly human. They joke that they've never seen me eat, and that I probably don't sleep-- emphasising this standard for perfection that I cannot live up to. But I try anyway, and it's self-destructive. I stopped being a real person a long time ago, I think. When was the last time I sat down and read a novel from start to finish? When was the last time I laughed at a joke until I cried? When was the last time I slept in past nine in the morning? When was the last time I kissed anyone?

I don't think I can remember. 

I didn't even know Halloween was coming up. I forgot. What are you going to be?

I just feel like I have to be everything. Not for Halloween, in real life. Like I have to be absolutely perfect because I am the standard, the touchstone. It's a daunting prospect. 

My parents also contribute to my stress, even though I barely see them, and

I'm going to stop there. This letter must be horribly depressing already without my adding a sob story about my parents. I'm sorry for complaining so much; you don't have to respond to all of it. I know it's a lot, and I also know that my problems must seem highly insignificant. 

But they feel like significant problems to me. 

Again, I'm sorry for complaining. I don't know why I let myself do that. I don't usually complain like that, to anyone. Not even Combeferre. I'm sorry. 

I'm going to microwave myself something and then I'm going to sleep. I have a lecture early tomorrow morning that I can't be late for; we have a speaker coming in. 

Write back soon, etc.,

Enjolras

*** 

***

Enjolras, 

DANG. 

I really wasn't expecting that from you! You're just full of surprises. 

If anything, I'm glad you have issues, too. I was also beginning to think you weren't quite human. 

Don't apologise, though. You have every right to complain, even though your problems are very first-world and white-boy. 

I'm kidding. Your problems are, of course, legitimate (Bahorel, on a lark, once took a class on being a therapist, and he claims this is something people say that is genuinely comforting on a deep level. I'm not convinced). 

I'm not going to depress you with talk of what gives me stress or cause for unhappiness. The letter would be ten pages long, if not more. So. 

Let's talk about happy things: Halloween! As is the tradition, I'm making the costumes for my friends. Feuilly is going as Han Solo (that was easy to make-- Bahorel wanted to be Princess Leia, but I refused), Bahorel is going as a cyborg (I had to watch SO many YouTube tutorials before even trying out robot makeup on him, ugh), Bossuet is going as a human version of some Pokemon (I can't remember which one right now, their names are all so similar), and I'm going as a pretentious French artist. Complete with beret, striped shirt, and the (admittedly pathetic) moustache I've been growing. I'm going to say nothing but "HON HON HON" all day come Halloween. I had initially planned to go as a Disney princess, but I ran out of shiny fabric to use, and all my wigs are really shitty quality. 

Sigh. 

Ask your friends what they're going to be for Halloween. They sound like a fun bunch. I'm sure they'll think of something for you, if you decide to participate. 

It sounds like you just need a break from all this work. I would advise you to go on a vacation or something, but that would be horribly hypocritical of me since I've only left Frouzins once and my friends go on an epic roadtrip every year and I've still never gone along with them. Still. You need a vacation. To someplace warm, probably, with no WiFi. Come on down to Frouzins ;)

Actually, don't. You'll hate it here. Never mind. 

And we have WiFi, so. Counterproductive. 

And you wouldn't want to meet me, anyway-- I'm foul in real life. I smoke a lot and I drink a lot and I cuss a lot and I'm also not very cute so I don't have anything that excuses or makes up for any of that. 

ANYWAY. 

Tell Combeferre to let you take a break or something. You need one. 

Go get a massage. Drink some tea. Watch the sun set. 

Kiss somebody. It'll help. Trust me. 

Or get drunk! That's always helpful, too. 

Even better: combine all of the above. 

Sorry that the back of this paper is covered in random, shitty doodles. I started this letter in the morning and then took it with me when I went to class, and then I doodled on the back instead of taking notes. I usually do that. Doodle, I mean, not take notes. Taking notes is for squares, and I may be a lot of things, but I'm no square. 

Everybody tells me that I'm rather rotund anyway. 

Wow, this suddenly turned into self-deprecating hour. Actually, every hour of my life is self-deprecating hour, haha. 

I was going to ask Bahorel something, but I can't remember what it is. 

What are you working on for school? I've got two art pieces due next week, and a more complete bibliography for an essay I wrote last week (I only had two sources, and one was Wikipedia). 

What's daily life in Paris like? Have you gotten used to its renowned charms, or is it still a remarkable city for you? I wouldn't know. I don't know shit about Paris. That's why I'm asking. Judging by your letters, you seem like a pretty metropolitan guy. I'd like to live in a big city, I think, but I have no way to tell if I prefer rural or urban life, really. I don't count Bordeaux, for a number of reasons. 

So yeah. I don't have much to say, and Bahorel is cooking dinner and I'm really hungry so I'm gonna wrap this up and send it off. 

Byeeeeeeeee!!!!

Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and please review or something to let me know what you thought because i live off feedback
> 
> kiss kiss


	8. Letters, 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, I'm sorry it took me so long to write back. Combeferre and Courfeyrac decided to make me relax for a day or two, and I let it go on for a little too long."  
> "Enjolras, Oh, good, you're alive. I was beginning to wonder. But, apparently, you've been replaced with some other Enjolras that isn't uptight and work-oriented. I like this one better."  
> Letters, 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol im posting this on mobile so sorry if it fucks up,,,,,  
> anyway here's letters, 8!! i hope all y'all enjoy it uwu and if you do tell a friend do a blog say it was horrible (if you thought it was anyway) or just leave me a review because that helps me write faster uwauwuauw  
> okay until the next time kiss kiss

Dear R,

I'm sorry it took me so long to write back. Combeferre and Courfeyrac decided to make me relax for a day or two, and I let it go on for a little too long. 

Thank you for the advice-- it helped. 

I'm not a big fan of tea, but I usually don't have time for sunsets, so I took a break for that. I kissed someone, and even though he wasn't a good kisser, it still gave me something to laugh about (not until I cried, but still). 

I feel considerably better. My friends managed to convince my professors to ease up on my workload, so I didn't have a ton to make up when I came back from this impromptu mini-vacation. 

Oh, I realised I haven't actually explained what happened:

Courfeyrac's family has a house a couple hours' drive from the city, where the air is clear and there is, regrettably, no WiFi. I was utterly cut off from the outside world, save for one unreliable landline phone. 

It was... 

Strangely, it was very nice. I feel refreshed; my intellect feels sharper. Country air did me good (I've grown up in big cities, as you know, so it was strange, at first). 

Is the air clear, down south? 

Thank you for the doodles on the back of your last letter. I know they weren't specifically for me, but they're very beautiful. If that's Frouzins that you're drawing, I'd like to visit it someday, despite the fact that you claim to not be very cute. 

Speaking of which. The smoking, drinking, and swearing isn't a problem: Combeferre smokes, and not just cigarettes. I'm used to it. Courfeyrac can get tipsy off of one beer, and he takes advantage of this often. Jehan can swear in four languages; Joly uses obscure medical terms to swear. As to not being very cute-- well, that's highly subjective and I cannot comment on it; "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and doesn't matter in the long run, anyway. Self-deprecation isn't something I have a lot of patience for. 

On my "vacation", I was able to take naps in the middle of the day. I haven't done that since I was a child, but it's incredibly refreshing. 

I came back feeling greatly refreshed, and with my political philosophies renewed and refreshed and revitalised. That negativity that you may have brought on is gone, and I have resumed planning rallies with a vigour that I haven't had for years. 

Did you mention that you worked at a Starbucks?

When's your birthday?

I'm sorry, this letter is even more disjointed than usual; I'm also working on an essay for class as I write this, and time away from the world made my thought process a lot faster. So I'm having trouble expressing my thoughts in as lengthy of a way as I usually do, because I'm having another idea by the time I'm midway through the first one, and it seems equally important and needs to be talked about just as much. 

I'm in a very good mood. I think I might go for a walk. 

I went to the other side of the city, and after a quick dinner, I sat on a bridge on the Seine and watched people walking by. It's not quite as peaceful as it is out in the country (of course) but it is very beautiful. 

I managed to come up with the opening few statements of the mini-speech I'm going to give at the next meeting, so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

As nice as this is-- this loafing about and taking impromptu vacations-- I expect I'll be back to my default state by next week, or at least the next time I write to you. 

In the meantime, though, I'm enjoying mental relaxation while I can. For instance, I've taken more than an hour to write just this half of the letter; previously, I've been able to finish a whole one in thirty minutes. 

I feel like I should draw you something, but, as I mention often, I can't draw. Combeferre, as a medical student, can sketch very well, but he's not here at the moment (he takes more time to relax than I do, and he's out somewhere with his other, non-Les Amis friends, relaxing). And I wouldn't want to confuse him by asking him, out of the blue, to draw that turtle that lives on the windowsill of the flat across from us on the back of this paper. I have named this turtle-- who doubtless belongs to whomever lives there-- Maximilien. Not after Robespierre, but because it's a very pompous name for a very small turtle. 

I'm sure you can imagine it for yourself. 

With that, I'm going to close up this letter. I do have some schoolwork on which I must catch up, so I'm going to go do that. 

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

***

***

Enjolras,

Oh, good, you're alive. I was beginning to wonder. 

But, apparently, you've been replaced with some other Enjolras that isn't uptight and work-oriented. I like this one better.

SEE?

Now, I don't want to say "I told you so", but...

I definitely told you so. 

Anyway, I'm glad it worked. It would have been so embarrassing had I recommended all that stuff to you and then none of it helped. So. 

d runk . ..

how anm i still___

holding th is pen...............

WHOA. 

I was smashed last night. 

(Note to self: don't write letters with hangovers in the future, because OW.)

That's so weird. Why would I decide to write two random sentences whilst drunk. What was going on in my head. What. 

Hey, at least I drew something in the margins. 

Oh, it's a dick. That's right, that guy came over. I remember now. 

Hey, he drank all my coffee then left. Asshole. 

Wow. Weird. 

Shit, I need Advil. 

Bahorel had an early-morning lecture, so I have to make my own breakfast. Ughhhh. 

I was going to say "well, I'm not inviting that guy back again", but since I'm assuming we got back here and were super ready to fuck and then I just... stopped and came over here to inform you that I was drunk and then ponder a mystery of life, I doubt he'll come back anyway. 

I can't believe he drank all my coffee. 

I have to go make more now. Hang on. 

Sorry for the inevitable grease stains that will be on the edges of this paper. I've made myself turkey bacon (UGHHH) and eggs and toast, so. 

What a weird weekend I've had.

Sounds like you're having a better time of it than I am, so good for you. 

I haven't been this hungover in a while. I wasn't even that drunk last night. Ugh. 

What did you have in your letter? I was going to respond to something specific. I'll find it in a sec. 

Your handwriting is SO hard to read whilst hungover. 

Oh, there it is. 

Haha, no, I don't work at Starbucks. They would never hire me, I'm not pretentious enough. 

My birthday is in January. 

I have now drawn a turtle sitting in a windowsill on the back of your letter. Now you can pretend that you drew it for me. Aww, cute. 

Maximilien is an awful name for a turtle. Name it Nostradamus instead. That's nicely gender-neutral, I think. 

In return for the lovely picture of a turtle you drew me, I have drawn you the stray cat that lives outside our dorms. I feed it every day, so it isn't really stray anymore, but still. As you can see in the picture, it has a bite out of its ear and really cute whiskers. I keep bothering Bahorel about adopting it, but he won't let me. Ugh. 

We have a pet hamster, though. I named him Cristobal. Bahorel named him Fluffy. We still haven't settled on which one is best. 

(I originally advocated for Trililzibein, but was shot down right from the start.)

I have finished my breakfast. I'll do dishes later. Or maybe I'll just make Bahorel do them, by telling him it's his turn. He never remembers whose turn it actually is, so it should be easy to convince him. 

I hope he comes back soon and turns on the heater. It's really cold in here. And the heater has never responded to my button-pushing. I think Bahorel bewitched it or something. Ugh. 

I know this letter is filled with "ugh"s and other one-word sentences, but that's because that's around all I can come up with in my current state. 

You never told me what your friends are being for Halloween. I bet you didn't even ask. 

Anyway, I'm glad you're feeling better. 

WAS THAT THE DOORBELL

YES IT TOTALLY WAS

AAAHHHH NOW I CAN STOP BEING FREEZING-COLD AND NOT-YET-CAFFEINATED 

BLESS

OKAY BYE

Grantaire

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always the blog is lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire and my personal is grabtaire -- come say hello!!


	9. Letters, 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, I don't know how you managed to not only hold a pen, but also write whilst extremely drunk. I'm very flattered, however, that you chose to write me two sentences instead of indulging in carnal pleasure. 
> 
> (No, I'm not.)"  
> "Enjolras, You're lucky that your letter arrived when it did-- had it arrived a day earlier, I would have answered it yesterday, and... yeah, nah. Yesterday was a pretty bad day. An anniversary of a couple things I don't like to remember. My letter would have been full of almost-drunk ramblings, really depressing stories, and a whole lot of swearing/insults. So."  
> Letters, 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy look at me updating on time (you know that means that i've finished letters, 10 eyyyy)  
> BUT unless i get a serious move on letters, 11 i may have to start updating every TWO days not every other day like i have been im sorry,,,,,  
> it's my birthday on sunday so i doubt i'll be updating then so the new letters will probably be up on monday uwu  
> anyway i changed my url on tumblr.com and now it's stonertaire but the lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire blog remains the same!!  
> i hope you enjoy this chapter  
> OH and disclaimer, as always, that whatever the fuck enjolras and grantaire say about politics/religion/various -isms isn't necessarily what i myself believe ok so i swear im not trying to offend anyone they just talk a lot and it gets out of hand im sorry in advance,,,  
> pls review or send me asks on tumblr idk,,,,  
> enjoy the chapter!! kiss kiss

Dear R,

You're right, I forgot to ask my friends what they're being for Halloween. I asked just now. 

Combeferre hasn't decided yet, but he's going to be either Mark Twain or a candystriper ("If Courfeyrac can convince me or pay me enough," he adds about the latter choice). Courfeyrac is one of the Spice Girls-- I can't remember which one. Joly is going as the 4th Doctor. Jehan is, when I last checked, going to wear a polo shirt and cargo shorts-- he's dressing as a straight person. But he changes his mind every few minutes, so I'm not sure if that's what he'll be wearing come the 31st. 

I doubt I'll participate in whatever they do, but if I must, I have an excellent Robespierre waistcoat that I can don at the last minute and say I'm a revolutionary from the time of the June Rebellion. Or something. If the yearly Halloween party (which I didn't even know was something that existed) is held at Combeferre's and my house, I'll probably hide in a back room before things can get rowdy. 

It appears that you've had a rather eventful day, or weekend, or whatever. I'm sorry that guy drank all your coffee-- that seems rather rude. 

I don't know how you managed to not only hold a pen, but also write whilst extremely drunk. I'm very flattered, however, that you chose to write me two sentences instead of indulging in carnal pleasure. 

(No, I'm not.)

Maybe the guy drank all your coffee to spite you, or get back at you for temporarily ignoring him the previous night?

I have suggested the name Nostradamus for the turtle to Combeferre. He peered at me, and then at your letter (I was reading it at the moment) accusingly. He then said, "Your pen pal is a bad influence."

"Says the man who goes to a hookah bar on a biweekly basis."

"Only if I have an exam coming up."

Five minutes later:

"But that's irrelevant, Enjolras. We're talking about bad influences here: I am making informed, safe choices, and not influencing you in the slightest. Irrelevant."

Only Combeferre can best me in an argument. As a result, our team won every debate tournament we entered in high school. 

Your letter was, in fact, mostly composed of monosyllabic complaints and other interjections. I'm afraid I can't offer any hangover advice, having never been drunk. Combeferre doesn't drink much except on special occasions, and even then he somehow manages never to get drunk. I've never seen him with a hangover. I would ask Courfeyrac, but he's not here (I'm not at home, but at the cafe where the group usually meets. Courfeyrac has promised to meet us so we can plan, but he's late. So I'm filling the time by writing to you). I'll ask him later. 

Oh, yes, I meant to thank you for giving me the relaxation advice that you did. I now respect your opinion slightly more; feel free to give more advice of the kind when I get stressed again (as I doubtless will soon). 

Ah, Courfeyrac has just arrived. Beyond what we're about to discuss, I have little to report, so I'm going to finish this letter up. 

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

*** 

***

Enjolras,

You're lucky that your letter arrived when it did-- had it arrived a day earlier, I would have answered it yesterday, and... yeah, nah. Yesterday was a pretty bad day. An anniversary of a couple things I don't like to remember. My letter would have been full of almost-drunk ramblings, really depressing stories, and a whole lot of swearing/insults. So. 

Today I feel a little better. I took the day off work yesterday, but I've gone back today, and the coffee shop is a strangely soothing place to be in times of distress. My boss took pity on me-- god knows why-- and let me play more music that I actually like than she usually does. After I got home, I put on my favourite mixtape, kicked Bahorel out so I could loudly sing along without getting laughed at/turned into a viral video (again). But Bahorel will be back soon to braid my hair as best he can and make me dinner. He always braids my hair when I'm sad (I always have at least one braid in). 

My hair isn't really long at all, though. It doesn't go past the nape of my neck. At the start of summer, it was pretty short, but I got lazy and now it's this awkward, messy length. And it's in loose curls, and always looks really cute with a tiny little braid somewhere in there. It always cheers me up, to have a little braid. You should try it some time. Sometimes I put in little beads, but when I do that, the as-of-yet un-given an official name hamster chews on them when I let him sit on my shoulder, so I don't like to combine the two. 

What's your favourite song?

I'm not going to tell you mine. It's embarrassing. And no one has ever guessed what it is, and I have no plans to let anyone know. HAHAHAHA. 

Anyway, aside from yesterday, I've had a decent week. I got a good grade on my last couple of art projects, and I've (obviously) been doing very well with the interpersonal relationships assignment in the human relations course. 

Can you believe that I spent the first half of my life in Catholic school? HA. Religion. What a fucking joke. An anti-joke. Or a really shitty pun that makes everyone in the room yell "SHUT UP" and throw stuff at you so you don't make any more. But not in a good way. 

If you're religious, Enjolras, and I've offended you, too fucking bad lol go cry about it~

That was rude, but I'm so emotionally drained after yesterday that I don't really care enough to self-correct. To make up for my rudeness, I have drawn you some friendly woodland creatures running around in the margins. Ah, yes, this is what I am using my college education for. Little cartoon foxes and badgers. Brilliant. 

At least my education is tangible, though-- Bahorel and his fancy science shit are so useless. I'll say, "Bahorel, show me what you learned today," and he'll get out a fucking chalkboard and write me out some equations about astrochemistry or whatever the fuck that he probably just pulled straight out of his ass. I have no way to tell if he's making all this shit up, but at least he can tell what I've been doing in school by the slow and steady creep of drawings down the hall to the bedrooms. I'm like a toddler. He even bought me washable finger paint once, after a particularly creative period. I used it all up within two weeks, so then I switched to using charcoal, but that was hella expensive, so I switched to crayons and markers. I'm an actual toddler. 

Every now and then I graffiti shit. I think I've mentioned that. Probably. So yeah, I have really good spray paint, but I haven't gotten a lot of chances to do anything cool lately. All my stencils are boring, at this point. 

Tomorrow night, some of Bahorel's friends in Toulouse are having a party, so we'll probably go to that with the rest of the gang. Feuilly will be designated driver, as he always is (we once had Bossuet do it and ended up twenty kilometres off-course and out of gas with a flat tyre, and I couldn't be expected to stay sober at a party if my life depended on it). I probably won't know anybody there. Sigh. 

Last week, one of my professors made me repeat what I said, like, three times because he couldn't understand me. He's a new teacher. But, hey, come on. My accent isn't THAT hard to understand. Ugh. What incompetence. 

(I know it seems like I'm being sarcastic, but I'm actually not.)

YO I was reading Rimbaud yesterday morning in an attempt to distract myself and YO he was a really cool little dude okay even if he was a really fucking melodramatic douche but like, whatever, he was fabulous. 

I might go as a belly dancer for Halloween, actually. The pretentious artist idea thing has become boring, after too much thinking about it, and I am never trying to grow a moustache ever again. Ever. I have ended its sad little life without ceremony, and will never allow it to be reborn. 

Hm. I still feel a little lethargic, both physically and emotionally. I am going to go watch ABBA music videos and "sing" along-- that always cheers me right up and gets me all energised and ready to save the fuckin' world whilst wearing a white tuxedo bedazzled down the sleeves and sporting a mullet. Oh, ABBA. 

(I need to work on my Swedish accent, though. Other than that, my impersonation is perfect.)

 

BYE!

Grantaire

P.S. what's your favourite abba song

 

this is a test

think carefully

don't fuck up

no pressure ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also feel free to drop by my personal which is, again, stonertaire or the lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire blog to ask me about my fancasts or w/e because i love to talk about this fic  
> OH!!!! and PLEASE send enjolras/grantaire asks about their lives or their friends or whatever like "my favourite abba song is ___ what does grantaire think of me now" or "what should i do with my hair today" because they'll be happy to help out and so will i because i love this verse and i want to develop it forever so ye ES come and say hello  
> see y'all next time uwu


	10. Letters, 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, I like the idea of having a little braid in. My hair is very long-- well, not very; it goes just to my shoulders, and it's a curly mess most days because I honestly don't have the time to manage it-- so I'd imagine a little braid would look nice, if not horribly unprofessional."  
> "Enjolras, You have shoulder-length hair?! Wow. Great. Now I have to readjust my whole mental image of you. See, I pictured you very clean-cut, in an Aaron Tveit sort of way, but apparently you're a wild, wacky, hippie man. Neat."  
> Letters, 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a h sorry i'm updating today and not yesterday!! but yesterday was my birthday and i didn't quite get the chance. i also think that, with the rate i'm writing letters at, updating every 2 days instead of every other day would be better for my own well-being so uh yeha.  
> i'm making a few playlists for this fic for your listening pleasure as we speak though  
> AGAIN disclaimer about enjolras and grantaire's views on whatever it is: i don't necessarily support them ok i might, i might not, but the point still stands that they are not necessarily my views and i seek to offend no one.  
> PLS come and ask the blog (lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire) questions!!! you can ask E and R various stuff to help you fill out your mental images of them, or about their personal lives, or their favourite whatevers, or advice-- anything. or you can ask me-- either on the blog or on my personal, stonertaire-- to write out lil drabbles with "missing moments" etc. or explain something.  
> with that, pls enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you thought! see y'all next time kiss kiss

Dear R,

This was another one of those letters that I had to read a few times before understanding it. And I thought my post-"vacation" letter was disjointed. 

I'm not quite sure how to respond (there is an awful lot to respond to, after all) but I suppose I'll just go chronologically and answer what I can. 

I'm sorry you had a difficult day the day before you wrote to me. Although I doubt I've ever been through anything similar to whatever the anniversary is of, I can still understand how painful memories can be. I'm sorry. 

I find coffee shops soothing, too. But I think the smell of the coffee is what comforts me-- Combeferre always smelled like coffee when he was a teenager, and he was, more often than not, the one to whom I turned when I was furious about something in politics or society and didn't know how to channel my passion out except in angry tears. I was a rather melodramatic teen, I'm afraid, and puberty struck me rather late. There are lots of photos of Combeferre and me at the same age, 15, but he looks 18 and I look about 12. Horribly embarrassing. Anyway, he would always calm me down when I was angry about the foreign policies of American presidents. Hence, my fondness for the smell of coffee. 

(I don't know if I mentioned this before, but Combeferre and I have been best friends since early childhood.)

You make mixtapes?

I like the idea of having a little braid in. My hair is very long-- well, not very; it goes just to my shoulders, and it's a curly mess most days because I honestly don't have the time to manage it-- so I'd imagine a little braid would look nice, if not horribly unprofessional. 

I'm not sure I have a favourite song. As I have said, I don't listen to much music. I'm rather fond of Debussy's solo piano pieces, though, and selected arias from Russian operas, and most of Grieg's work. Of course, there is much to be said for the classics of classical, but they aren't my favourites. I'm blanking on the rest of my favourite pieces right now; I'll look through my discs and get back to you on that later. 

I'm glad you're doing well in school! I am, too, incidentally. Essays left and right, as usual, but I'm managing to keep up with the work. 

No, I'm not religious. I'm sure you can guess what Marx quote is implied here. 

From what I've heard, Catholic school is rather oppressive and awful. Cosette-- whom I may have mentioned-- spent the majority of her life in a rigorously Catholic environment. Judging by the stories she tells us, it's a miracle she's as well-adjusted to life as she is. 

However, despite the atrocities that are committed in the name of gods, it is important to respect the culture of religion. Society has been structured around it since Mesopotamia, both in the Eastern and Western cultures/ways of thought. Great works of art and architecture have come from religion; great developments in science (of course, before the first Great Awakening); great charity acts. Respecting the community of each individual religion and understanding without adhering to it is one thing. Using a blanket statement to dismiss every single aspect of religious culture is less than sensitive. 

Sorry, I got off-topic. I don't have a religious bone in my body, and I think that religion (and astrology) is ridiculous-- but I still do think it's important to acknowledge what the religious community has accomplished. 

Thank you very much for the woodland creatures. 

I definitely know what you mean when it comes to the tangibility of learning. I could ask Combeferre what he learned today, and he would respond either by listing the names of the connections of ligaments in the hands, or by giving me a vague statement about the nature of humanity that he picked up in whichever philosophy class he had that day. And I have no way of proving that any of what he tells me is correct or not. 

I like the idea of decorated walls, too. Both indoors and out. What sort of things do you put in your graffiti? What do you depict? Ever since Banksy-- and before, of course, but he's the best known-- graffiti has been an extremely powerful tool of politics. 

Have fun at the party. Don't drink too much. By the time you get this letter, it will probably be too late to instruct you about that, though. 

You have an accent? 

My favourite ABBA song is not easily determined. Courfeyrac likes "The Day Before You Came" and "Honey Honey." Combeferre prefers "Ring Ring", and Jehan likes "Head Over Heels." Joly likes "Mamma Mia" and "Dancing Queen." As for me, I like "Gimme Gimme Gimme" (in as ironic of a way as it gets) and "Fernando." "Cassandra" is good, too, as is "Money, Money, Money." Oh, and "Voulez-Vous." I don't know. All of them. What is your favourite ABBA song?

(The music video for "Take A Chance On Me" gave me nightmares for a couple of weeks. '70s fashion makes my skin crawl.)

I would have to say that out of the duo of Verlaine and Rimbaud, I prefer Verlaine. 

I've never tried to grow a moustache, nor do I intend to ever try. 

With that thought, I leave you until the next time. 

Write back soon, etc.,

Enjolras

*** 

***

Enjolras,

You have shoulder-length hair?! Wow. Great. Now I have to readjust my whole mental image of you. See, I pictured you very clean-cut, in an Aaron Tveit sort of way, but apparently you're a wild, wacky, hippie man. Neat. 

Ha, you sound like you were an adorable kid. I was held back a year, as I may have mentioned, so I always looked (and was) a lot older than every other kid in my grade. Bahorel and co. were in the grade below me, and when I took a gap year, we all ended up in the same grade after I had come back. I hadn't really had many friends before that. So I hope you appreciate how lucky you are to have had Combeferre since "early childhood."

Oh, and puberty didn't hit me early, per se, but it didn't treat me well. I was a miserable-looking teen. I was miserable. And it always looks like it hit me early in class photos because I'm a year older than everyone, anyway. But yeah-- my teens were bad years for everyone involved. LOL!

Yeah, I make mixtapes. They're hella cool, to quote Bahorel. I could make you one for your birthday. Dubstep remixes of classical music! Could be cool. Could also be really lame. We'll see. They're easy party favours, or birthday gifts, and it's always really funny when the person to whom I am giving the tape doesn't have a cassette player and then just looks a little lost. Ha. 

Yeah, I mean, I respect the history of religion or whatever, but I don't respect the concept, really. At all. It's just so silly. The things people do in the name of their gods absolutely invalidate any and all religious accomplishments. I would know. And people lie to themselves, they tell themselves that they are watched over, and protected, and loved by this deity no matter what, and they rely on this spiritual strength to keep them going, and then it all turns out to be a lie and then they're left disillusioned and broken and

But that's a separate story, and a long and painful one, and I don't like to tell it unless I have to. 

Fine, you pass the ABBA test. I'm rather impressed, actually. I agree with you on the music videos, though. I can't really pick a favourite; I love them all. 

Speaking of music videos and woodland creatures. Go on YouTube, RIGHT NOW, and look up a song called "The Fox." You'll hate it. But I love it. I know every word. And I'm working on writing and recording a karaoke version that they can play at the best bars in town on karaoke night for me. 

Yes, I have an accent. My mom - ~~is~~ was from Spain, and my dad was native Occitan. I grew up speaking mostly those languages, and only became fluent in French after a couple of years of school (hence being held back). As a result, my accent is jarring at first (or so I've been told) because I don't sound like I'm French but I actually am. It's weird. I don't really know how to explain it. But I don't sound French. I sound like I'm from Spain. Or Toulouse. Neither of which is where I am from, but okay. Oh, and I speak literally no English. Bahorel teases me about it a lot, but I guess my brain hit maximum language capacity when I became trilingual.

YO, FUCK THAT NOISE. RIMBAUD IS WHERE IT'S AT. FIGHT ME. I mean, I'm all for being emo or whatever, but "it rains in my heart the way it rains on the city"? So you had a fight with your boyfriend-- go fucking cry about it, or go smoke some hash, but don't write shitty-lame poetry that every grade school student in France has to memorise backwards and forwards for years to come. Ugh. 

Nah, Rimbaud is the best enfant terrible. End of story. 

(Also, I think you're forgetting when Verlaine had a hissy fit and SHOT RIMBAUD IN THE WRIST. ???!!!???!!!)

In my graffiti, I depict whatever I'm in the mood to depict. If you're hoping that I'll tell you that I paint beautiful works that speak out against police brutality, quit hoping. Last week, I did a thing on some wall of myself as a cat. And sometimes I do really cute, floral things of bad words. It's chill. Banksy is great and all, but then he sold out, and yeah. Nah. 

Oh, so the party was alright. I met a guy. I doubt he'll call me, but whatever. I don't really remember too much of it (I usually don't) but I remember dancing. A lot. I wish that was the part that I forgot, but alas. The music was shitty, too, which makes the dancing even more embarrassing...

But I had a good time. And I stuck to lighter-coloured liquor, so the hangover wasn't that bad! Amazing. 

I can't say the same for Bahorel, though. Poor thing was smashed. He can usually hold his liquor, but he really let himself go. I think he and Feuilly are on a break. It's totes awk. I don't really know what's happening, because Bahorel doesn't like to talk about it anyway, even if they're not fighting. (Not that he doesn't love Feuilly. He does. He just doesn't like to overshare.)

Whoaaaa, it's suddenly dark outside! I should watch Gossip Girl reruns, then sleep. 

xoxo,

Grantaire~


	11. Letters, 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, I made the mistake of looking up "The Fox" whilst most of my friends were in the room. Pontmercy turned bright red and left (for whatever reason) and Courfeyrac whooped loudly and sang every word (I think that you and Courfeyrac would get along). Combeferre looked mildly amused, and even Prouvaire was enraptured. I was less than impressed, but I can see that the young men in the video try very hard."  
> "Enjolras, Actually, Ylvis is great. I’m assuming that your Pontmercy friend’s reaction has to do with him getting drunk and singing all the parts of what the fox might say (I have no idea, but this is a common theme amongst those who are too embarrassed to hear the song aloud when sober, so)."  
> Letters, 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes it's definitely canon that grantaire likes ylvis  
> having tried this new schedule, i definitely prefer updating every 2 days!! it's much less stressful for me  
> okay i don't think there are any warnings on these except the usual ones so uh yeah  
> i'm making a playlist for this  
> several actually but ok  
> watch for that in coming weeks  
> OKAY SO please ask questions at lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire! you can ask them to enjolras and grantaire themselves, or you can ask me stuff about the fic in general, or you can prompt me to write stuff within the verse, etc etc etc. or just contact me at my personal, stonertaire.  
> and PLEASE review come on friends y'all's feedback is what keeps me writing most days honestly so please let me know what you thought!! uwu  
> okay i'll see all of you in another 2 days with letters,12  
> kiss kiss enjoy

Dear R,

I must admit, to my chagrin, that I don't know how to make mixtapes. Doesn't it involve glue? You must have a lot of patience. The extent of my knowledge of mixtapes comes from that movie that Courfeyrac made all of us watch. (He cried. Nobody else did. Somehow, he managed to survive the awkward nature of the situation.) And, even though I was young in the late 90s, I was never exposed to popular music, much less the ability to control what I or my friends listened to. 

Courfeyrac has been reading over my shoulder. He tells me to write '#RICHKIDPROBS', whatever that means. "Sounds like the struggle was really real for you," he says, with a look of feigned sympathy on his face. I don't quite understand, but I'm sure he's being sarcastic. 

We're currently on a train. The three-day weekend we have been promised turned into a grandiose planned voyage across the channel into England. Combeferre and Marius are the only ones among us who speak enough English to survive. I mean, I speak it, but not very well-- there aren't enough words for me to express myself, I feel. Courfeyrac knows how to "pick up chicks" in English. Joly can explain a disease to you in English, but he can't order a sandwich. Prouvaire knows the works of Robert Frost backwards and forwards, along with Poe, but he doesn't know what they mean except in translations. So. I'm sure we'll all starve to death; don't be alarmed if letters from me cease coming. 

I'm mostly worried about how behind missing yet another day of school will make me. And there is work to be done for Amnesty, of course. I'm leading one letter-writing campaign at the moment (I know it doesn't seem like a lot, but even being in the higher ranks of one of those is almost unheard of in an intern) and there is lots I must get done before my deadline in two weeks. 

Apparently, the Halloween party will be, in fact, at the apartment in which Combeferre and I live. This means I will have to (more or less) baby-proof the place, according to what Courfeyrac has told me about past parties. I don't plan to participate in the festivities-- I'll have work to do. But I will put on my scarlet waistcoat as I sit in a back room and type up reports and essays so that no partygoer that comes across me can call me a killjoy. 

I am not a "wild, wacky, hippie man", and, after a bit of Googling, have also determined that I am no Aaron Tveit, either. I just have long hair. I keep the rest of myself neat, but I don't have time to deal with my hair. 

I made the mistake of looking up "The Fox" whilst most of my friends were in the room. Pontmercy turned bright red and left (for whatever reason) and Courfeyrac whooped loudly and sang every word (I think that you and Courfeyrac would get along). Combeferre looked mildly amused, and even Prouvaire was enraptured. I was less than impressed, but I can see that the young men in the video try very hard. 

I wasn't an adorable kid. 

I have asked Combeferre for confirmation. Gravely, he nodded. "You were awful," he said. 

There you go. 

Prouvaire is very interested in linguistics (I say 'very'; I mean 'also' or 'somewhat', because he tends to hyperbolise) so I explained your accent to him. He all but swooned. 

I'm afraid my language background is much more boring. I have a standard Parisian dialect in my speech, and an extensive vocabulary from my reading. That's it. 

Actually, that goes for most of my friends. We’re all rather standard Parisians. Sure, some of us speak more languages than others (Prouvaire, for instance, is fluent in archaic Greek) but our accents are all very similar.

I suppose that’s what happens when you all grow up within a few blocks of each other.

I’m glad you had fun at the party, if that’s what that paragraph meant. And I’m sorry that Bahorel and his partner aren’t on the best of terms. As far as I can understand, there is a big love triangle or square… thing with Courfeyrac, Pontmercy, Cosette, and another young woman whom I do not know. And it has been getting slightly awkward when all of us are together. But I think we’ll work through it, just as we did when Combeferre dated someone with extremely right-wing politics for a couple of days.

Ah, I think we’re just about to go under the channel now, and I’d rather not strain my eyes in the dim train light, so I am going to wrap up this letter now.

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

*** 

***

Enjolras,

Do you and your friends make a habit of going on Exciting Trips? That's neat. My friends have an annual spring break roadtrip extravaganza, where they drive down way south and hang out around the Marseille area, but I've never gone along. I tell myself that it’s because I don’t like beaches that much, anyway, but really, I’m just too freaked out to go too far out of town after what happened the last time I did. Although, technically, that can never happen again, but… still. Agh. Yeah.

A love square? That sounds kinky.

Mixtape-making does, in fact, involve glue. You get other tapes, the ones with music on them, and you carefully slice and dice up the songs you want, and then you glue them together very carefully-- voila, mixtape. Well, that’s the hardcore way of doing it. You can also probably just record songs if you’ve got a cassette player that can also record shit, but the quality won’t be as good. I’m a purist. It is, however, semi-hard to track down cassette versions of certain songs, so I do have to settle for recording in shitty quality every now and then, especially if I’m making a tape out of modern music.

Actually, Ylvis is great. I’m assuming that your Pontmercy friend’s reaction has to do with him getting drunk and singing all the parts of what the fox might say (I have no idea, but this is a common theme amongst those who are too embarrassed to hear the song aloud when sober, so). They’re a comedy duo from… Norway, I think (Ylvis. Not Pontmercy friend) and all of their songs are like this. You should listen to “Stonehenge” and “Work It” and then the one about dubstep (the one about dubstep summarizes my love life pretty well). Yes. I’m also insanely attracted to both of them. I once had sex with twins. It was an interesting experience. If I ever meet Ylvis, and if we all get drunk enough together, I’m sure I’ll proposition them. I mean, they’re not twins, but still.

Tell Courfeyrac that I think he's beautiful. 

Speaking of beautiful men, that guy from the party? He called me! We're meeting up this weekend after my Saturday morning class to get lunch. He's coming here, since I don't have time to get out to Toulouse and see him. 

Oh, also, I guess that I should clarify. I HAVE been out of Frouzins, disregarding Bordeaux, if you count Toulouse. Which I don't. It's too close. It's not even half an hours' drive. I mean, Bordeaux wouldn't have taken as long as it did to get there had the car not broken down and had F

Yeah, nah, that's a story for later. 

Marseille and the Annual Spring Break Roadtrip Extravaganza (I have just been informed that all words must be capitalised!) take a few days because, legend has it, my friends always take the scenic routes and stop anywhere that looks interesting and stay overnight at the houses of pretty girls. 

AW YISS MY SECOND-FAVOURITE SONG JUST CAME ON too bad the singer is a hella gross racist because she's super pretty and like i haven't done a girl in a few years but i would definitely break my gold-star dry spell for her i mean mmm

But she's a hella gross racist. That's white straight girls for you, I guess. 

Oh yeah, newsflash, I'm not white. My mom, along with her whole (estranged) family, was from Spain, yeah, so I'm pretty brown. I'm not sure I identify as a POC, but, like, I've never been conflicted about that side of my identity, not like with my sexuality and other stuff. So. Whatever. Not a lot of us kids down south are white, anyway, especially in this little town. 

Speaking of things that aren't white, I did a painting last week that's only visible under a blacklight. So, under normal light, it looked mostly... blank. My teacher didn't appreciate the artistic sentiment, and refused to let me show him the piece under an actual blacklight (yeah, I have a portable one) so I got a bad score on the assignment. Ugh. You're not the only one who has professor problems, except I never gave them the illusion that I cared about what they taught. Maybe that's where their resentment of me comes from? Ah, well. That means it's far too late to fix it up. Either that, or I should "do" extra-good art to make up for it. LAUGH. 

So yeah. Not much else to report, except that Bahorel surprised me with a new pair of socks yesterday. He knitted them himself! He's just like Dobby (except 2 metres tall with a badass fashion sense). Anyway, they're stripy and I love them. 

I'm considering getting another tattoo. I'm also considering a piercing, but I don't know where. Hmmmm. I'm sure I'll decide at some point soon (whilst drunk, probably). 

 

OKAY BYE HAVE FUN IN ENGLAND 

~Grantaire


	12. Letters, 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, ...
> 
> I don't understand art at all. Maybe I just don't understand you. Why paint something that is invisible? Is it a metaphor? It seems a little risky, painting an elaborate metaphor with a chance of receiving a failing grade for it if the professor doesn't appreciate your concept."  
> "Enjolras, Maybe you’re right about the blacklight painting being a bad idea. It’s too late now, obviously, because I’ve already gotten graded for that assignment. No matter, I’ll save that one for when I finally start getting noticed. The people will love it, Enjolras.
> 
> I mean, I hope.
> 
> I highly doubt it. Nobody’s ever seriously liked anything I’ve made or done, with the exception of my pathetic little mixtapes and the occasional lucky combination of alcohol into a wonderful-tasting drink."  
> Letters, 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h ey friends!! here is letters,12 for you in which grantaire is a sad lil dude as he usually is  
> but no fear no fear i've just finished writing letters,13 and he's happy in those  
> ((not for long tho hah haheh h))  
> a N YWAY please leave a review to let me know what you thought! and-- constant reminder-- p LEASE send asks to lettersfromenjolrastograntaire. you can ask me stuff! ("H EY HEY tasia describe grantaire's hair/accent/tattoos" "he y tasia what is the story with enjolras' parents in this? how do they treat him?" etc etc) you can ask the boys stuff! ("grantaire what's your favourite movie" "enjolras what's a good revolutionary slogan" "both of you: what's your favourite memory with your friends" etc etc etc) you can also tell me stuff you'd like to see in future letters, maybe, and you can come and talk to me at my personal which is stonertaire. and you'll just generally make me really happy and write faster. same goes for reviewing. i write faster with feedback, so, yeah!  
> enjoy the chapter!!~ see y'all later with letters,13~~  
> kiss kiss

Dear R,

I was about to ask "You have a tattoo?" as though that were a surprising revelation, but it makes sense with your personality, so I shall think better of it and simply ask what kind. And whatever piercing you end up getting, be sure that you keep it well-cleaned. 

I have no body modifications of any kind, so I'm afraid I can't offer any advice beyond that. Not that you asked for any, of course, but still. 

The "love square" isn't so much kinky as it is-- as previously mentioned-- awkward. By the time I write this letter, the issue has mostly been resolved (something called a "hybrid relationship"), but, over the course of the trip, it did get very uncomfortable to be in the same room as what Combeferre and Joly have dubbed "Courfius."

Speaking of which, England was wonderful. I was born in London, as you know, but I haven't been back sense. I also don't feel much connection to the city because of my being born there; rather, I associate with it because of its history as a cultural hub, and the centre of a lot of early industrialisation and other social reforms. It's an important city, in respect to the history of the world. And, despite the truly awful food, it is a rather beautiful city. We took a river tour up the Thames, at Courfeyrac's insistence, and saw a show at the Globe, at Prouvaire's insistence, and saw some musical about rebellious children on the West End, at the insistence of everyone but myself. Oh, and we spent a few quality hours in the British Library. And, of course, we dropped by Amnesty headquarters (at my insistence) where I spoke to one of my supervisors in person for the first time. We also spent some time in Hampstead Heath. Oh, and Courfeyrac claims to have seen an urban fox. I'm not sure if I believe him. But it was a wonderful trip, although it is much colder in England than in France and I barely speak English...

I'm not quite sure how to respond to your news about the guy. Um. Congratulations, I suppose? I've never been through anything quite like that, having never been in anything even vaguely resembling a proper relationship. 

Oh, and we don't often go on trips like this, mostly because of how busy we all are and how rarely our schedules line up. Most trips have to be planned months in advance; this trip was an utter rarity in that regard. 

I passed your message on to Courfeyrac. He batted his eyelashes in response. I suppose that means he's flattered, but then again, his moods are mercurial, just like yours. I repeat that you two would probably get along very well. 

It sounds like you have a lot of patience, since you tolerate making mixtapes and doing art. I'm afraid that when I sit still for too long without doing anything important, I get antsy and irritable. But you and Combeferre share a patient quality, where you can sit and write, or read, or draw, or snip cassette tape, for a while without becoming irate. 

I'm exaggerating, of course. I hardly become irate. But it is frustrating to me to spend idle time when I could be bettering lives. 

I don't like beaches either, actually. Unlike you, apparently, I'm pretty white, and I burn very, very easily. Pontmercy is the only member of the group that is as unfortunately white as I am, but he freckles in strong sunlight. That happened to me when I was a child, but not anymore. Now, I just burn. A lot. So I don't frequent beaches or other places with lots of sunlight (Courfeyrac teases me for this mercilessly).

...

I don't understand art at all. Maybe I just don't understand you. Why paint something that is invisible? Is it a metaphor? It seems a little risky, painting an elaborate metaphor with a chance of receiving a failing grade for it if the professor doesn't appreciate your concept. 

Moving on. 

I have to say that I disapprove of your generalisation when it comes to "white straight girls", but I will agree with you that that specific type of person-- especially in the public eye-- will tend to be predisposed towards cultural insensitivity; especially since being famous often makes one think that one is invincible and "above" everyone else. By no means am I agreeing with you that nothing more can be expected of "white straight girls", but I do see the validity of part of your point. 

But good on you for recognising this musician's problematic aspects. 

Oh, and I'm not going to look up Ylvis. I respect their satire and all, but it isn't my kind of music. 

(Courfeyrac is reading over my shoulder and says that that is a "damn shame". Okay.)

I realise that the tone of this letter was a little brusque, and I'm sorry. I haven't had much sleep, and I haven't had much coffee, and I didn't mention this but the trip to England left me with a lot of Amnesty work to make up, especially with the upcoming Coca-Cola announcement about its support or lack thereof of the Russian Olympics. 

Until the next time,

Enjolras

*** 

***

Enjolras,

dang son you need some sleep because your handwriting gets really spiky when you're tired and it hurts my poor drunk eyessss

Yes, look at me maintaining mastery of writing utensils whilst intoxicated. Amaze. Many great. Wow. So talent. 

I mean, I'm not, like, SUPER drunk. I'm like SuperDrunk's tipsy sidekick. Ya feel?

Oh, man, I was gonna go get my tattoo NOW but Bahorel pointed out what I already know (blood flows easier when there's alcohol in it) so I'm probably gonna wait until at least tomorrow. Maybe. 

wow i'm seized with the urge to go and paint a wall brb

 

okay i'm back 

i have no idea what it looks like but my hands are covered in red and gold paint so im sure it's really tacky as usual

whatever i'll go check it out when i sober up i guess

Okay, so, like, what else did you have in your letter that I need to respond to?

Yeah, haha, I figured you were white. No offence. 

Oh, wow, good job on your trip to England. Mr. International. Sounds like you had fun, though, so that's good, at least. 

Yeah, so things fell through with the guy. Surprise, hahahahahaha. I'm so surprised. Astonished. Somebody doesn't want to date me?! Stop the presses. 

Ughhhhhhh. 

I'm not really upset. I never had any expectations anyway. Maybe that was the problem. Who knows. 

And I was an absolute idiot to think that I would be able to function in a real relationship again, especially after what happened last time. 

You're probably wondering what it is that I keep hinting at with this "bad breakup" and "Bordeaux" stuff. Guess what, I'm not drunk enough to tell the whole story. So. Yes, they're connected. LONG story short, I had a boyfriend once, and we went to Bordeaux, and it ended really badly and really fucked me up and I don't like to talk about it. There. Mystery partially solved, you're welcome. 

i'm sorry you're stressed out lol try being a starving artist alcoholic for a week and then see how you feel about your problems

Okay, that was definitely rude, but since you didn’t worry about holding back the snappiness in your last letter (“Maybe I just don’t understand YOU. AHHAHAHAH.” I paraphrase) neither will I. It’s been a long week for me, too, and I didn’t even travel to a foreign country.

Maybe you’re right about the blacklight painting being a bad idea. It’s too late now, obviously, because I’ve already gotten graded for that assignment. No matter, I’ll save that one for when I finally start getting noticed. The people will love it, Enjolras.

I mean, I hope.

I highly doubt it. Nobody’s ever seriously liked anything I’ve made or done, with the exception of my pathetic little mixtapes and the occasional lucky combination of alcohol into a wonderful-tasting drink.

I guess it’s “let’s listen to Grantaire bitch and whine about his personal life without actually revealing anything” day AGAIN. It’s been that day every day this week, which explains why Bahorel is only here in the early mornings and late nights.

(Well, I mean, he’s also at school and has a job, so that might contribute to his absences, too. BUT STILL.)

Not only am I considering getting a tattoo, but I am also considering doing something radical with my hair. I mean, it’s nice and all, and I like what it’s currently had done to it, but I also want change. I know it sounds stupid, but I think a lot of my negativity has to do with my refusal to change myself and my surroundings and move on.

But then again, I’m also terrified of what’ll happen if it goes wrong.

The last time I took a risk and did something different, I ended up being shunned from my community, developing severe trust issues and an alcohol dependency, and, eventually, losing my parents. So. Like. Uh.

Look, I really do feel like I should tell you what happened (it would be cathartic for me, and you’re probably curious. Maybe? Eh) but I also feel like I’m still not ready to talk about it. With anyone. I don’t think anyone knows the full story, and although I feel like I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, not even my best friend has managed to get me to tell him all about what happened. So.

I’ll tell you eventually. Either when I feel comfortable about it, or when I absolutely can’t hold it in any longer.

Anyway, this letter has gotten weirdly brochure-at-a-psychiatrist’s-office, so I’m going to change the subject.

Courfius is a cute name. Hehhahehha.

Okay, yeah, beyond that, I don’t have much to say or react to. I’m going to go sleep. But first, I’m going to draw you several more woodland creatures, this time large enough that they fill up all the empty space at the bottom of the page.

There.

 

OKAY BYE

Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh and you are probably just as frustrated as enjolras with the lack of explanation for grantaire's whiny angst about blah blah bad breakup but don't worry!! a full, detailed, long, and heartbreaking explanation is coming soon~


	13. Letters, 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, It would appear I'm starting all of my letters with questions. At the risk of forming a pattern, do you often paint murals when you're drunk? I wish that my friends did creative things whilst intoxicated. But, unfortunately, all they do is sing loudly and/or cry."  
> "DEAR GREAT PUMPKIN, Nah, I don't usually paint MURALS specifically when I'm drunk, but I do like to get my creativity out somehow. If I don't have paper, I can marker all over my friends' bodies. It's chill."  
> Letters, 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h ey there!! i know halloween isn't until tomorrow but the way my publishing schedule lined up, this is the closest we're gonna get so i just made these the halloween letters  
> i hope you enjoy grantaire being happy because this begins an arc of happy-grantaire but uh without spoiling anything um don't get too attached :)))  
> oh also you get some backstory in this so yeah enjoy that i suppose  
> DONT FORGET that you can send asks to lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire either about this fic or within this fic! you can ask the boys themselves questions, either about the 'verse or for advice, or you can ask me stuff about the fic or whatever. just ask it questions. just do it. it makes my day and it makes me write faster for you.  
> and please review! i looooove feedback~~  
> ok i'll shut up now enjoy the chapter and see y'all next time!! uwu

Dear R,

It would appear I'm starting all of my letters with questions. At the risk of forming a pattern, do you often paint murals when you're drunk? I wish that my friends did creative things whilst intoxicated. But, unfortunately, all they do is sing loudly and/or cry. 

You have been hinting at that story, and although I can't deny that I'm curious, it is absolutely none of my business. I haven't asked about it yet, and I don't plan to. I also don't expect you to even tell me-- you have every right to keep your stories to yourself. 

In re: tattoos: I asked around, and Combeferre has one of a moth on his left shoulderblade, Prouvaire has an e. e. cummings poem on his foot, Joly has a small pipe behind his ear, and Courfeyrac claims to have too many stars and hearts to count. It seems I am the only one in the friend-group (save Pontmercy) without one. But I won't let that pressure me; I've never wanted one, I'm afraid. Despite my history of being involved in turbulent protests and several cases of police brutality, my pain tolerance when I'm not running a high of adrenaline is rather low. 

I can't offer advice about relationships. 

As somebody who is as demisexual as it gets, I also can't comment on most sexual relationships. 

(Incidentally, it is commonly assumed I am a virgin. I am not. I "lost" my "virginity" before figuring out why I wasn't all that attracted to him anyway and labelling my sexuality. Since then, I've only had sex... twice, I think. I don't necessarily regret it, but the memories of it aren't particularly fond.)

I would say, however, that trusting someone who is a near-stranger with your emotions isn't too great of a decision. I'm speaking from a purely theoretical standpoint, of course, but most people-- save proponents of "love at first sight"-- would probably agree with me. 

I liked your pun about SuperDrunk. Courfeyrac was reading over my shoulder (even though I have repeatedly asked him not to) and he laughed so hard he needed to lie down. 

Oh, and I got some sleep. I hope my handwriting has become easier to read. 

I didn't mean to come off as rude; I was simply tired. I apologise if I offended you in any way by being terse. And (mostly because I have no idea how it works) I have great respect for your art. I would never be able to commit to being an artist, so I am constantly impressed by those who can. 

And, on that topic, I really can't see what reason you have to hate yourself as much as you appear to. From your descriptions of yourself, it sounds as though you are good at many more things than just making mixtapes and drinks. Admittedly, I have a tendency to see the best inn people, but, even judging from your letters, you seem witty, intelligent, talented, and deeply caring. I treasure all of your sketches because of how good they are; I envy your ability to get along with everyone around you and be involved in things (when my friends and I gather outside of a meeting or a protest, I tend to sit back quietly and not participate. I don't know how to do otherwise). You are devoted to your friends and your art and your work. You have a good-- if not slightly brash-- sense of humour, and an interesting background that is a good conversation starter. Whatever has happened to you in the past cannot be allowed to eat away at your sense of self like this; you deserve better than that. With untreated depression being another factor in it, I understand it can be hard to see yourself in a positive light, but seeing yourself in a negative one will get you nowhere. To be metaphorical: it's time you started making more inspirational mixtapes than sad, self-pitying ones. You are young and free. Why not take advantage of this? Instead of drowning yourself in alcohol and bad memories, go and fulfil your potential. 

I'm sorry-- that got very personal, very quickly. I'm sure I'm the last person you want to hear anything like this from. I'm just a random rich boy in Paris who has barely any influence on your life, if at all, and you don't even know whether I am who I say I am. So I will understand if you completely ignore what I have just said and go on doing as you have been. After all, you have very little influence over my life in return. 

What tattoos do you already have?

Oh, and what are you and your friends doing for Halloween other than dressing up and... getting drunk?

Thank you, again, for the woodland creatures. I saw a joke on the Internet somewhere that was a parody of The Little Prince and I thought of you; it had to do with that fox song, I think. 

With that, I leave you until the next time. 

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

*** 

***

DEAR GREAT PUMPKIN,

Happy Halloween!!!!! Writing drunk again because I didn't get a chance to reply earlier in the week and I've gone and locked myself accidentally in the teeny-tiny office thing here so I may as well make my time in here productive!!!!! Oh and I'm at a party and I always carry paper with me anyway!!!!!

My belly dancer costume is itchy. I hate bras. But I've gotten hit on TWICE so it's definitely worth it. 

TATTOOS i have at least 10 because i have the whole solar system incl. pluto and the sun down my spine

And I'm not in the state of mind to count/list the rest of them. But I have others on my wrists and ankles and arms and hips etc. etc. etc. and I have some piercings but not as many as Bahorel does. We went and got our tongues pierced in second year of college; mine closed up, but he kept his in. And he has more tattoos than I do, also. 

THIS PARTY IS FUN! Lots of dancing to music I hate, but whatever, I'm drunk and locked inside a tiny room. I'm having a wonderful time. 

Oh wait someone unlocked the

_[in different handwriting; scrawled at a diagonal and almost illegible]_

GRAN T AIR E IS A NERD

_[back to the usual handwriting, albeit messier than before]_   


sorry bahorel got a hold of my paper hahaha

Nah, I don't usually paint MURALS specifically when I'm drunk, but I do like to get my creativity out somehow. If I don't have paper, I can marker all over my friends' bodies. It's chill. 

Wow, you got really inspirational! Too bad I'm beyond help. 

oh so a weird thing just happened

somebody im kinda acquainted with called me "R" and this random chick was like "oh i think i saw that mural that you did" and i was like ?? okay

that's never really happened before 

neat

i mean like sometimes people compliment my art when i've actually got it in front of me but i don't think anyone has ever heard someone call me R and then recognise me from that so that's cool. 

Your friends sound really sexy. I love tattoos. I looooove them. 

I was gonna sketch this party for you-- the decorations are KICKIN-- but I can't really see well enough, which is why my handwriting is so messy right now. There are strobe lights and things, and a fog machine. People are dancing to the terrible music and I have seen at least three people dressed as Miley Cyrus so far. All of them have been cis dudes. Haha!

Feuilly is sitting next to me. I think he's asleep, though. I like Feuilly a lot and I really don't tell him enough. He's been through so much. He's great. 

I just kissed him on the top of the head. Yeah, he's asleep. Poor thing. 

I'm going to draw a moustache on his face. 

Hahahahahaha, he looks wonderful. I love my friends. 

Whatever I drank, it made me really happy! But I know that that means I'll just be extra-sad tomorrow, oh, no. 

Is this the epistolary equivalent of a drunk-text? I don't even know if I'll mail this. I might say something really embarrassing and have to start over. But most things I say are embarrassing, so whatever!

I'm so cheery! This is weird. Maybe something other than alcohol was in my drinks, if you catch my drift. 

Speaking of which, have you seen Pacific Rim? I'd like to take you to see Pacific Rim. I bet you'd love it. Yes, yes, I know you don't usually watch feature films, but WHATEVER!

Hahaha, are we talking about sexual histories? I "lost" my "virginity" to the dick that ruined my life-- innuendo not intended. He honestly wasn't as great in bed as he thought he was; I found this out after... when I slept around to ~fill the emptiness in my soul~. I mean, I'd slept with girls before. Which is why I put "virginity" in quotation marks. I don't know why you did that. Yeah, I honestly did like sleeping with cis girls and DFABs for most of the first part of my being sexually active, because there is SO MUCH YOU CAN DO WITH A VAGINA, but then college happened and I was out by then so I slept with a lot of penises. I've been sleeping exclusively with men for like two years. I don't think that was a choice, though. It just happened. I'm pretty unattractive to girls and Frouzins is tragically limited on the nonbinary front. The only vague exception would be Feuilly, but we don't see him that way. :)

Demisexuality is cool! The whole ace spectrum is cool. Y'all are really brave for putting up with all the stigma and other shit; tbqh, I think you get the most idiocy in the whole acronym. I, personally, fall under the cop-out label-but-not-really-specific-at-all Queer section of said acronym. 

I don't really know what else to say! I think I'm gonna go have another one of these drinks (after walking darling, darling Feuilly someplace safe for him to lie down) and then go grind on a stranger. These hips don't lie, my friend, and my costume shows them off veeeeery nicely. 

What did you do for Halloween? Did you actually hide in the back room?

Honestly? That probably isn't as lame as me sitting in the corner of a BADASS party, not as drunk as I should be, and writing to my pen pal. HAHA!

And a happy new year!

Hugs and kisses with this lip-stain,

Grantaireeeeeeeeeeeeeee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT I FORGOT
> 
> i made playlists for this!! you can find them all here: [this one](http://8tracks.com/grabtaire/send-you-all-my-love) is a general sappy love song one which is equally sincere and cheesy, [this one](http://8tracks.com/grabtaire/et-moi-je-t-aime-un-peu-plus-fort) is for enjolras, and [this one](http://8tracks.com/grabtaire/take-me-as-i-am-or-not-at-all) is for grantaire. i may be making more in the future but those are what i have right now! enjoy ~~~~


	14. Letters, 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, every time my parents call me, it's about money. They're as bourgeois as it gets, although my mother cannot help that. My father glories in it. My mother does attempt to ask me how I am, but before I can really tell her, my father interrupts by demanding to know why my credit card bill is so high, why my textbook prices have gone up, why I only paid a third of rent this month, and so on, and so on. 
> 
> This conversation was no different. They're lowering my monthly allowance, in the hopes that I will learn my lesson and mature quicker."  
> "Dear Enjolras, Think of it this way: if my art career works out, and if I get even transient fame, then you can sell my idiot sketches of woodland creatures for a lot of money and you won't even need a monthly allowance. 
> 
> If it falls through, you can laugh at them and at my pain. Everybody else will be doing that at that point, anyway, so. Yeah."  
> Letters, 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god it's been so long i am TRASH and i am sorry
> 
> in the time since we last spoke, i have written up to letters,18, so updates will (hopefully) be a lil more regular now.
> 
> i have also made 3 mixes for this fic: one each for the boys, and a general sappy love song one. they can be found at [my 8tracks here](http://8tracks.com/mix_sets/dj:6625076).
> 
> reminder that the blog for this fic is [right here](lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire.tumblr.com) and you can send me asks, send e and r asks, etc etc etc, come talk to me i'm a very lonely little garden eel
> 
> again im really sorry i've been gone for so long ahhhhh :(( but i'm back now! happy holidays!! kiss kiss!!

Dear R,

I can't believe you took time out of a party that sounds fun, even by my standards, to write to me. This time I really am flattered. 

Well, I didn't do anything for Halloween. My friends did, though, and I didn't hide in a back room. I participated a little, although I drew a polite line when Courfeyrac began to suggest games such as "Seven Minutes In Heaven." When I went to sleep-- well past one in the morning-- they were still all engaged in revelry. To be quite honest, I would not have minded staying up later with them, but Combeferre sagely reminded me that I had a presentation to give in class the following day. 

I was reading your letter before the start of the meeting. Courfeyrac passed by, and happened to glance down at the spot where you had written something about vaginas in all-capital letters. He raised his eyebrows at me and moved on. 

Is something going on between you and Feuilly? I thought he was with Bahorel. Sorry if I've gotten something wrong; I am atrocious at picking up on social cues. My friends remind me of this constantly. 

Although most of your letter was entirely incomprehensible, it's good to see you (or, well, read you) in such a good mood at last. Maybe it wasn't the drink; maybe you've just shed your negativity and allowed yourself to indulge in some self-respect. 

It probably was the drink, though. I'm not getting my hopes up. 

Congratulations on getting your street art noticed! This is a good thing. And yes, I agree with your point a few letters ago that the people will love your blacklight painting (I'm not sure whether or not you were being serious). Just as the most famous of musicians can allow themselves to do zany things when they become famous enough, so it is with modern artists, as far as I know. 

Bahorel has even worse handwriting than you do. And that's saying something. 

I'm being facetious, of course. Your handwriting is fairly decent. Joly and Combeferre have both begun to develop doctor handwriting, except Combeferre's is even worse because he's also taking education courses and therefore has teacher handwriting to go along with that. 

I will confess that when I first became literate, my handwriting was dreadful. But my parents could afford tutors (my parents could afford anything) and, within a year, I was writing in cursive worthy of an official state document finalised in the 19th century. As you can see, it has since then decreased in formality for the sake of my teachers' eyesights as they read my school essays. 

Is the "Great Pumpkin" thing a reference? I would say that, by now, you should just assume that I won't get it. 

I think I heard about Pacific Rim when it came out. 

Yes, I've just asked Courfeyrac. He got very excited. So did Combeferre, actually. And Joly. Prouvaire is out buying flowers, but I'm sure he'd be excited if he were here. Anyway, it doesn't sound like something I would enjoy too much; movies that feature monsters or random, unnecessary battle scenes aren't my type of thing. 

I spoke to my parents on the phone today. 

It was... difficult, to say the least. It always is.

My mother is a good woman. She has put up with a lot, both from my father and myself, but has remained strong. She has a slight air of danger about her; despite her beauty, it is clear that she isn't someone to be crossed. From the way I've described her, it may seem as though she's cold, but she isn't. She can be distant, and usually is, but is also deeply caring, even though she doesn't show it much. 

Unfortunately, all of her care does tend to turn into overprotectiveness. 

She was terrified when I went off to college. When I got my internship at Amnesty. When a photo of me protesting made it onto the front page of a nationally published newspaper. She is upset, naturally, that I don't fit her mould of a placid son who will make the family proud, and she's also worried that I'm going to get killed someday soon. 

My father is another story entirely. 

His family is even wealthier than my mother's, and it shows. He has worked in business and the stock market his whole life, and still works as a consultant for several firms even now that he's past the average age of retirement. Because of his constant dealings with money, he is extremely conservative-- both fiscally and socially. 

Sometimes, when I do something particularly reckless, it seems as though I'm just doing it to spite him. 

We've never gotten along. Never. Family dinners were dead quiet from middle school onward. If I spoke up, it would turn into a screaming fight. I used to spend weeks sleeping in Combeferre's spare room because my father had told me he didn't want a "filthy socialist" in his house. 

I never apologised. 

Ah-- I've gotten off track, and I've revealed quite a lot of what I usually don't. Sorry. It must be boring to hear about the petty problems of others. 

Anyway, every time my parents call me, it's about money. They're as bourgeois as it gets, although my mother cannot help that. My father glories in it. My mother does attempt to ask me how I am, but before I can really tell her, my father interrupts by demanding to know why my credit card bill is so high, why my textbook prices have gone up, why I only paid a third of rent this month, and so on, and so on. 

This conversation was no different. They're lowering my monthly allowance, in the hopes that I will learn my lesson and mature quicker. 

I just... get so frustrated. For my mother's sake, I try not to, but I can't stop myself. 

I'm sorry for complaining; it's just been on my mind, and I tend to write about what's on my mind. 

Well, the meeting is about to begin, so I will finish this up. 

Have a good week, I guess. 

Happy (belated) Halloween!

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

*** 

***

Dear Enjolras,

I would reply to everything in your letter, but. 

I've had such a weird day. 

I'm so tired, oh, man. 

Okay. I need to tell someone about this, and then maybe I'll be able to make sense of my own emotions. Maybe. 

Remember how, a few letters ago, I got drunk and decided to paint something on some wall? And at the Halloween party, some chick said she recognised it?

Yeah. 

It got recognised. 

I woke up this morning and saw that my email was full of stuff. I ignored it. 

(Spoilers: this was a bad call. I probably would have had a lot of a better morning had I read it.)

(Oh, and don't worry: nothing bad happened! I'm actually really happy. I'm so happy that I'm dazed. I'm exhausted. But I'm so happy.)

Anyway, I went on with my day as usual. I took the bus to work, but there was traffic, so I walked, like, half the way. 

(Yes, this story is boring right now. Shhhh. It's gonna get exciting real soon.)

It's coffee shop work day, and I didn't have school, so I actually got to go with Bahorel! We were both on the bus, and we both walked half the way. 

And we took a detour, just for fun. Because I still hadn't seen what I'd painted drunk by then. 

And, lo and behold, when we wandered into that alley, there was... a ton of people there. 

I was like, "What."

People were taking pictures, talking about it-- it was weird. I mean, there were like, only six people there, but still. 

I then proceeded to say, "Hey, what's going on here?"

One of the dudes taking pictures said, "I work for Sud-Ouest, and I'm doing an article on this piece."

I said, "I painted that."

Bahorel laughed and said, "Yeah, and he was dead drunk, too."

The guy ignored him, but I elbowed him in the ribs. "You're R?"

(I'm paraphrasing.)

I held out my right arm; I have R tattooed on my forearm, along the vein and the, ah, other stuff there. He seemed to believe me at that point, because he turned off his camera and shook my hand. He gave me his business card. 

Enjolras, he told me he was very impressed with my art. Apparently, somebody put that piece of shit thing up on Instagram and it got a lot of attention. He is impressed with my art. His supervisors are, too. My art is getting a headline piece in the arts section of Sud-Ouest. He wants to see more of my art, he wants me to show him my stuff. As much of it as I can. 

They're sending somebody else down this week to interview me. I can just picture the headline: "GRANTAIRE, internet sensation, raging alcoholic, and TORTURED GENIUS."

Or something like that. I'm no journalist. 

I can't believe it. 

I'm getting noticed. 

And why? Because I got ragingly drunk and painted a pirate ship thing sailing into the sun on a piece of public property. 

This is a big deal, though. It is. Really. I didn't get a chance to show him any of my work today-- I did have to get to the shop before my shift started, unfortunately-- but I told him I would on Thursday. I also have a big test in my history class on Thursday. Whatever!

Shit, this means I need to dig up all my best stuff. My best portraits, landscapes, henna tattoos, sculptures, latte art-- ALL OF IT. OH MAN. WHY AM I WRITING TO YOU RIGHT NOW I HAVE SO MUCH WORK TO DO. 

Anyway, I checked my email when I got home from work, and it was all notifications on my Pinterest or whatever, telling me that more and more people were following me. Facebook friend requests. Invitations to join Google Plus groups (whatever the Fuck that means). 

And a couple of very polite emails from local newspapers. 

I'm amazed. I'm amazed. I'M AMAZED. 

This is the best thing that has happened to me in a long time. 

But I'm scared to let myself be happy, you know? It's because I've gotten used to never allowing myself have nice things. I inevitably fuck up. Or somebody else screws everything. And then I end up even more broken than before, because when you finally make yourself vulnerable and then get hurt, you get hurt even worse. 

So I'm not sure whether I should be as happy about this as I currently am. I'm worried. I don't know. This glass is half-something, and we'll see soon if it gets filled or drained. 

Well, that was deep as hell. 

Think of it this way: if this works out, and if I get even transient fame, then you can sell my idiot sketches of woodland creatures for a lot of money and you won't even need a monthly allowance. 

If it falls through, you can laugh at them and at my pain. Everybody else will be doing that at that point, anyway, so. Yeah. 

Okay, I need sleep. I doubt I'll be able to sleep, though, so I'm just gonna go lie in bed and grin at the ceiling until my cheeks hurt even more than they already do. And then I'll probably cry until I actually do fall asleep, or just get a bloody nose all over my pillow. And then I'll be up all night. But that was the plan anyway. 

Sorry I didn't properly reply to your letter. I just needed to gush. 

I'm so happy.

I'm so happy. 

~Grantaire 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always i thrive off feedback so pls feel free to leave me lots of reviews or send me/the official swak blog asks!! thanks so much for reading!!


	15. Letters, 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, What are your plans for Christmas? How cold does it get in Frouzins?
> 
> I think it's supposed to snow in Paris this year. It would certainly be nice. 
> 
> For Christmas, I usually go over to Combeferre's. The other half of our friend-group was raised extremely Jewish-- an inexplicable coincidence-- but they all celebrate anyway. I think the commercialisation of a holiday meant to celebrate a messiah who preached non-materialism is awful, but I'm an atheist and I love Christmas, so it doesn't matter anyway."  
> "Dear Enjolras, OH SHIT YEAH CHRISTMAS. THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN, I DECORATED MY FLAT IN RED AND GREEN. I AM SO READY. 
> 
> I've brought out the knitting needles and the tinsel and will be knitting my friends awful sweaters. They're awful. I have drawn a picture of one in the margins here for you. No joke, Bahorel still wears that thing. Not even in an ironic way. I love my friends. They're such nerds!
> 
> Yeah, I'm one of those people that gets really scary about Christmas. BRING OUT THE ADVENT CALENDARS, BING CROSBY RECORDS, AND WARM INDOORS/COLD OUTDOORS, MOTHERFUCKERS. LET'S GO ICE SKATING AND THEN CAROLLING."  
> Letters, 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends!! look at me updating semi-regularly! i'll try to get the next one up quicker than this (i don't know why i said 'try': i'm writing letters,20 right now so it's not like it'll take any effort).
> 
> thank you all SO much for the kind words both here and on my blog. it means so much to me that so many people are enjoying this little thing i'm scribbling. so thanks bunches <33
> 
> don't forget: the official sealed with a kiss blog is [here](lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire.tumblr.com) and you can send asks to enjolras and grantaire about their friends/personal lives/interests/advice etc, or me about plot/characterisation/technicalities/anything just please do it i am a sad and lonely little garden eel
> 
> so yes please enjoy the chapter and please let me know what you thought in a review or an ask somewhere!! ahhh thanks!! kiss kiss

Dear R,

I was very happy to read the contents of your last letter on your behalf, even if you aren’t certain how to feel about it. I would say that you are talented enough in this field and passionate enough about it that there is very little chance of anything falling through, and you should allow yourself to enjoy your slow rise to the fame you deserve!

By the time you receive this letter, and by the time I receive your reply, I’m sure things will already have progressed; however, I’m going to wish you good luck with both the showcase of your work and the interview anyway.

And I also hope, for your sake, that they come up with a better headline than your concept.

And I will subscribe to Sud-Ouest for a month or something so I can see the article online, if that is what it takes. I realise that we don't know each other particularly well, seeing as how we've just been writing letters to each other, but the success of those who previously thought they would never attain it is important to celebrate anyway. 

I've never been through something similar to this-- I mean, in spirit, but not in form. As I understand it, the most important thing right now, at this pivotal time, is staying committed. Insist upon being interviewed; show more work than they expect; cover all your bases so that  failure isn't even a remote possibility. I can tell how much this means to you, and you deserve it. 

Of course, even if it works out, maintaining your fame won't be easy. You'll have to keep up interest and keep producing work that is up to the standards you've already set, and

Combeferre is reading over my shoulder. He told me I don't know anything about art, or fame, and that I should leave you alone and let you "do your thing."

(He doesn't usually sound like that. It's finals week in one of his courses, so he's spent a lot of time... relaxing.)

As for me, I haven't been relaxed at all. My tiff with my parents-- the most recent one-- has gone a bit overboard, so they have reduced my allowance and are threatening to withdraw me from my internship. 

I really don't know why I provoke them as much as I do. I know how powerful they are. 

But I won't bore you with more details of that, nor will I bore you with more so-called "inspirational" statements about hard work. I am sure that you, as a competent adult, will be able to figure this out for yourself as you go along. 

You have a tattoo of your own name? That's, um, nice. 

(To be fair, if I had ever come up with a pun that good, I would probably get a tattoo of it, also.)

(I love puns-- I don't know how clear that has become-- but I'm not particularly good at them. My best one is the name of the activist group I have, but it's confusing to explain.)

I am still very happy for you. 

From what I can remember of the insane days from the first time my activism got noticed by someone who mattered, I can advise that it'll be hectic for you, but worth it in the end. In my case, careful networking managed to get us several permits for rallies, and a regular place where we could meet. And a benefactor of sorts. His name is Lamarque. I doubt you've heard of him-- that sounds very hipster, but he really is only well-known in circles of very specific politics and activism. However, he has just the kind of influence we need, and with his help, eventually we will be able to manage

Oh, sorry. I do know you don't care. I just tend to forget not to ramble sometimes. 

What are your plans for Christmas? How cold does it get in Frouzins?

I think it's supposed to snow in Paris this year. It would certainly be nice. 

For Christmas, I usually go over to Combeferre's. (My parents usually don't even bother to invite me to their holiday party.) The other half of our friend-group was raised extremely Jewish-- an inexplicable coincidence-- but they all celebrate anyway. I think the commercialisation of a holiday meant to celebrate a messiah who preached non-materialism is awful, but I'm an atheist and I love Christmas, so it doesn't matter anyway. 

I also think we're doing a secret Santa thing this year. Courfeyrac is organising it (now there's someone who's almost as busy as I am). I suppose I'll end up having to ask you for help or something-- I'm awful at buying gifts for people. 

Anyway, I hope this letter finds you and your career deservedly flourishing. 

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

***

***

Dear Enjolras,

Okay, you deserve a real reply to the various things you've asked about in previous letters. Don't worry, I'll update you on my ~career~ soon enough. (Spoilers: it's going well.)

-Haha, nothing is going on between me and Feuilly. He's with Bahorel, remember? We're all just very fond of him, is all. He deserves a million people that are fond of him. He's been through a whole lot and he's come out on top. Plus, he's drop-dead gorgeous. Freckles are sooo sexy. What's not to love??? PLUS, all my friends are very handsy and affectionate anyway. Platonic kissing is definitely a thing with us. 

-Man, sorry about your parents. It's one thing for a random - ~~stranger~~ \- - ~~acquaintance~~ \- friend (?) in Frouzins to disagree with your politics and kinda make fun of you for them... It's another when it's your goddamn parents. They sound like dicks! I wish you lots of luck in emancipating yourself from them, although a steady paycheck from a source you don't need to work for is always nice and worth the struggle. 

My parents were kinda dicks, too. My mom was hard to deal with on bad days (most days), and my dad and I barely had anything in common. Honestly? I feel like I barely knew him, once I grew old enough that the distinction between knowing someone and not knowing someone started to matter. 

-I was raised really religious, so I feel like I should celebrate Christmas properly, but I don't... I don't do religion anymore, not even on really bad days. 

I don't really want to talk about that right now because it'll kill my mood. 

-Your friends sound so great. I bet I'd totally get along with them. Can you imagine?! Paris would never be the same. 

Too bad I'm never leaving Frouzins ever hahahahahaha

-OH SHIT YEAH CHRISTMAS. THE DAY AFTER HALLOWEEN, I DECORATED MY FLAT IN RED AND GREEN. I AM SO READY. I AM BECOME CHRISTMAS. C H R I S T M A S. 

I've brought out the knitting needles and the tinsel and will be knitting my friends awful sweaters. They're awful. I have drawn a picture of one in the margins here for you. No joke, Bahorel still wears that thing. Not even in an ironic way. I love my friends. They're such nerds!

Yeah, I'm one of those people that gets really scary about Christmas. BRING OUT THE ADVENT CALENDARS, BING CROSBY RECORDS, AND WARM INDOORS/COLD OUTDOORS, MOTHERFUCKERS. LET'S GO ICE SKATING AND THEN CAROLLING. 

I promise to pull a Christmas cracker by myself and pretend you're also doing it so we can share the pun, since you like them, apparently. 

(Yeah, I have a tattoo of my own name. It was a part of my growth into my own person.)

Heyyyy. 

A secret Santa. 

That's a rad idea, and I would totally organise one, but I don't want to put any undue financial strain on my friends...

But yeah, Christmas. 

Do you often stay at Combeferre's? That sounds chill. 

Ooh, I'm gonna go kick Bahorel until he makes me some eggnog. 

 

I'm back. Eggnog in hand. Fuck yeah. 

OKAY, so you want to hear about my CAREER. 

In a few words: it's going well. The journalist dude called his supervisor, wrote his article, and although I'm not getting front-page coverage, I am getting a blurb in the arts section... because I have a gallery thing opening next week. 

Yep, I managed to assemble enough of my good art, and people in Toulouse to whom Journalist Man is connected did things and pulled strings (it rhymes-- what if my life were a musical? oh MAN it would be sad and drunken but at times HILARIOUS) and now I have a whole small private gallery room all to myself, and next week I have to go down there and suck up to rich people and drink fancy champagne out of cheap glasses and talk pretentiously about art I did whilst dead drunk. Did I say "have to"? I meant "get to". This is gonna be... totally tubular. 

Haha, Bahorel is grumbling at me from the kitchen because I drank all his fancy hot chocolate, but he's wearing yesterday's makeup ("IT'S A SMOKY EYE" he insists. Shut up. You slept in that.) so he's hard to take seriously. In the margin, I have drawn him glowering at you, "smoky eyes" and all. 

For Christmas, I like to braid his hair where it's longer, and weave in little tinsel strings. It's super cute! But sometimes I have to re-do it so it matches his outfit of the day...

Sorry, getting sidetracked. Career career career. Career! Career. Career doesn't look like a word anymore. Careeeeeer. 

A gallery all to myself. This is what dreams are made of. That, and absinthe, expensive prostitutes, and a game of Scrabble. Throw a few Romantic poets in, and it's a real dream. 

Have you seen Moulin Rouge? Yeah. That's what dreams are made of. With, like, at least 70% less tuberculosis, though, preferably...

Sure, I can help you with your secret Santa thing if it happens. No prob, pal. Since you're socially inept and know little about your friends' interests, and my gifts always kick ass. 

Whoop, phone ringing. It's a different journalist man. I'm excited. Will tell you what phone call said next time because want to finish up letter but phone is ringing and I am writing very fast ahhhh gotta go bye!!!!!

-Grantaire


	16. Letters, 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, Congratulations on your gallery! Again-- what with the delay of the postal system-- I'm sure by the time you receive this, it will have already happened and gone splendidly, etc., but from when I am writing this, I hope it goes well. Great things will be expected of you, I am sure, and I have absolute faith that you will do a spectacular job. 
> 
> I look forward to seeing your work displayed in galleries in Paris; surely that's the next step."  
> "Dear Enjolras, Gallery opening went well. Fancy champagne wasn't as fancy as I had hoped, but was still better than the shit Bahorel and I keep at home. Sold a painting for not very much money, but enough to keep me nicely boozed for a while. Sold a painting!! Not even a commission! That's pretty neat! I also had to write little blurbs to describe my paintings. Maybe I shouldn't have done that whilst drunk? Too late. They all said stuff like "as the moon spins in the sky, the paint flows through your hair and yes don't mind those horses in the nearby field. videotape them. if it was too late for leda it's certainly too late for you. where did you leave my bicycle? i love you."  
> Letters, 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buddies!! hey!! what's up!! here i am with another update of swak!!
> 
> thanks so much for all the support etc y'all keep me writing
> 
> anyway if you like what i do PLEASE come and say hello at the [official swak blog](lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire.tumblr.com) (uh idk if the link works but it's lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire) where you can send me asks or send enjolras and grantaire asks or just do anything idk
> 
> i have also found the perfect fancast for grantaire; feel free to come bother me about that on there or on my [main](queerfeuilly.co.vu) (queerfeuilly.co.vu)
> 
> anyway, pls comment on here also, and i hope you enjoy the chapter!! see you all next time kiss kiss

Dear R,

Congratulations on your gallery! Again-- what with the delay of the postal system-- I'm sure by the time you receive this, it will have already happened and gone splendidly, etc., but from when I am writing this, I hope it goes well. Great things will be expected of you, I am sure, and I have absolute faith that you will do a spectacular job. 

I look forward to seeing your work displayed in galleries in Paris; surely that's the next step. 

Oh, and I can only imagine the devastation that would occur if you were to meet my other friends (yes, I consider you among their ranks). Paris would never be the same, you're right. 

Anyway, I'm relieved that your career has advanced in the right direction since you last wrote. I'm glad to hear that. And, in the event that you do become famous, I will hold onto the woodland creatures for a very long time (until they're worth millions) and only sell them after making photocopies. 

Okay, now to respond to the non-career aspects of your letter:

We're having a secret Santa. I have been assigned to Joly. Help. 

What has Feuilly been through? Sorry-- that's a horribly personal question, I know. I am terrible at picking up social cues, remember? But I'm not going to cross it out because I agree with you that letters replete with cross-outs look unpleasant. 

No, I've never seen Moulin Rouge. I just asked Courfeyrac about it. Here's how the conversation went. 

"Dude, who the _fuck_ is your pen pal?"

"...what?"

"Over the past few weeks, you've asked me about some of my favourite shit. Who the fuck is he? Tell him I want to KISS HIS FACE and then TALK ABOUT IGGY AZALEA'S ASS with him."

"..............."

Do you know who Iggy Azalea is? You haven't mentioned such a person. I suppose Courfeyrac just assumed that you would like Iggy Azalea and their ass from the rest of your musical/film interests. 

In re: religious upbringings: I think my mother is religious, and my father might be, but I wasn't raised in one way or another. Christmas was always a lavish affair in the public eye (I think I mentioned the holiday party) but, once all the guests had gone and the nannies took time off, I was sent off to bed early and would wake up with new things just... in my room. Not even wrapped. 

I know, it seems juvenile and ungrateful to complain about that, of all things, and I am aware of how privileged I sound and am. But being able to unwrap presents from under the Christmas tree is, I am told, a formative experience for children. 

Platonic kissing? I'm not even going to ask Courfeyrac, for fear of being subjected to some. 

Thank you for the offer of virtually sharing a Christmas cracker. I take you up on it, and will do the same for you. 

And I'm sorry about your parents. Both about your relations with them, and them being gone now. If you would like to talk about it, well... Fair warning that I won't be much good-- everyone tells me that seeking comfort from me is like trying to gossip with Mt. Rushmore, or trying to make a Royal Guard smile-- but at least I have no choice but to listen? 

Ah, Christmas sweaters. I have a couple, myself. As you can see, I tried to draw one in the margins, and gave up because I can't draw at all. Prouvaire has a truly spectacular collection of them. And Pontmercy wears them practically year-round and in a definitely un-ironic way... Nobody really knows why or appreciates it. 

Absinthe? I thought that was illegal, and for a good reason. Be careful with that (whom am I kidding? Honestly, what I say probably has no effect on what you do/drink). 

Combeferre has just reminded me that not only do I have to finish typing up a report for Amnesty, but I also have an essay to complete for school. 

"Wasn't the HR assignment to only send and receive, like, three letters, anyway?" he asks. 

I don't know. Was it? I don't think I've been sending my letters through the HR class's system since the first one... 

Anyway, I have to go. It's going to be a long week for the both of us, it seems. 

Write back soon, etc.,

Enjolras

 

***

***

 

Dear Enjolras,

Warning that this letter will be a mess. I'm writing on the bus to Toulouse and the road isn't really nice. Also I'm stressed out and you're not allowed to smoke on public transit anymore. 

Career-- good. Had to turn down an opportunity last week, though, because they wanted me to go up to their offices god-knows-where and I told them I only worked locally. 

Gallery opening went well. Fancy champagne wasn't as fancy as I had hoped, but was still better than the shit Bahorel and I keep at home. Sold a painting for not very much money, but enough to keep me nicely boozed for a while. Sold a painting!! Not even a commission! That's pretty neat!

It's weird, seeing your own name written on business cards. Who even paid for those? Man. 

I also had to write little blurbs to describe my paintings. Maybe I shouldn't have done that whilst drunk? Too late. They all said stuff like "as the moon spins in the sky, the paint flows through your hair and yes don't mind those horses in the nearby field. videotape them. if it was too late for leda it's certainly too late for you. where did you leave my bicycle? i love you." (That was actually the annotation to a painting of sunflowers in the vague style of Turner.)

I was very amused by your attempted drawing of a Christmas sweater. The people on this bus must have been pretty concerned: I had to open your letter on the bus (hadn't had time earlier-- being almost-famous is busy!!) and laughed hysterically for a good five minutes. 

God, I hate wearing suits. And bowties. I got so frustrated with my actual bowtie that I ended up wearing one of those awful clip-on things. Better than a bolo tie, but still. Cheap. 

Yeah, I'm on the bus in a suit. I have a different gallery thing to go to-- not my own, but one I was invited to-- so I can network and show off my portfolio to fancier people than the ones at my local gallery. 

I need a smoke :(

And a drink :(

Or twenty :(

I'm really tired, Enjolras. In a good way, though. How does it feel for you-- when you've just finished something big for Amnesty, and you can sit back and watch it unfold? When you've spent weeks sleepless for this thing and now it's going forth into the world to do its work?

Does it buzz inside your veins, too?

Yeah. 

I'm tired, but not of life. 

No, I genuinely just need sleep, man. Haha. 

Dude, the other day some journalist told me I needed to "do something" about "that thing in my hair" (in reference to the single bleached streak I've had since the age of 18). Do what?! Strangle you with it?! Don't fucking comment on my appearance, dickface. 

I should probably be nicer to these people. They are shaping my life, after all.

Whoa, I've really rambled here. Sorry! I know you care a little, but you probably don't care THIS much.  

Okay, now I'll respond to the rest of your letter. 

Joly, eh? You said he has a tattoo of a pipe? Get him a print of Magritte-- you know the painting I'm talking about. And a boxset of the first couple of seasons of Grey's Anatomy. And a plushie of the grumpy cat (Google it). Trust me. 

What has Feuilly been through? Wow. Dang. A lot. Since you don't live here, and don't actually influence the lives of my friends, I may as well tell you. Feuilly's trans. He grew up in foster homes or whatever, so he couldn't come out, but before college-- he graduated high school, and then came back for the second semester of his first year of college as a sexy young man. He started going by his last name and spending every cent he made on T. Still does that. 

He's been through even more than I have. 

I mean, pretty much everyone in town accepts him now, but it was a really slow and painful process. We supported him through it. He's doing really well now. He's awesome. 

Okay, onto things that are easier to talk about: Iggy Azalea's ass. Tell Courfeyrac the feeling is mutual, and that it is certainly a work of art. (She's the straight white girl rapper I mentioned a few letters ago. The gross racist one, remember?)

Haha. Thanks for the offer of a marble shoulder to virtually cry on. If I need to take you up on it, I will, but I'm fine for now. I've been keeping pretty busy with art shit-- to busy to feel emotions. Hm. 

Haha, to be honest, I haven't been paying attention to the HR assignment requirements, either. I think Combeferre's right. Three letters, sent and received. But my professor doesn't care what any of us do, so. Oops!

Man, isolated or not, your childhood sounds fancy (read: bourgeois) as fuck. 

I'm almost in Toulouse! The girl sitting across from me is very pretty. I'm gonna finish up this letter and talk to her. 

Happy early holidays, and yes, absinthe was illegal, but when has that ever stopped me? Haha!!!!!!

-Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feUILLY


	17. Letters, 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, Can you imagine if I brought someone like you along to my parents' holiday party?
> 
> They would disinherit me. 
> 
> It's a very amusing thought. Shame you don't live closer, or I would definitely invite you as my plus-one, and together we could bring anarchy unto my parents' house. 
> 
> ...Sorry. I have no idea what I'm saying. I'm even more tired than you apparently are, I'm sure. "  
> "Dear Enjolras, Since I can't be your plus-one, pretend I'm there anyway. Taking advantage of free booze and trying to pickpocket people. I am the dream date. At least I can dance, though-- I wouldn't be a total failure. Moms love me. (No, they don't. But they don't mind me.)
> 
> Let me know how it goes. I'm sure it'll be hilarious."  
> Letters, 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THERE FRIENDS it's me again posting fic on finals week instead of studying but hahaha  
> reminder, again, that the official swak blog which is open for all sorts of questioning is lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire, my main blog is stonertaire, and you can do p much anything you want with that information  
> pls let me know if you like what i'm doing-- i thrive off feedback!! uwu!!  
> ok yes enjoy the chapter and i'll see y'all next time kiss kiss

Dear R,

Every time you write, I'm always pleasantly surprised by how well you're doing for yourself in your career. I realise that might sound rude-- "you're successful?! I could never have dreamed of that! How unlikely!"-- but that isn't what I mean. What I mean is, it seems like you usually don't have drive to pursue things that interest you, but now you have developed it, and are doing very well. I wouldn't have expected that of someone as cynical as you, but you are talented enough that I'm also not surprised that you're successful. 

That was a rather wordy explanation for what felt like a simple concept in my head. It's been a long week. 

I showed Prouvaire the description you wrote for your painting. He was very impressed. If a poet likes it, then so should the moneybags that go to galleries. 

To my parents' dismay, I can't tie bowties, either. "It's your only failing," Courfeyrac jokes, at which point Combeferre usually laughs and I usually glare at everyone. 

It's very late at night, right now, which is why my tone may be different from usual. I have been staying up far too late all this week to get all my work done, both for Amnesty and school. 

Oh, and my parents invited me to their holiday party. I was very surprised. I suppose it's been a while since I saw them, though, and they'd like to keep tabs on me. 

I don't know if I'm going to go. If I do, I'm going to have to find a plus-one. I usually bring Combeferre, but depending on how rebellious I'm feeling by the time of the party itself, I might bring someone like Prouvaire. 

Can you imagine if I brought someone like you along?

They would disinherit me. 

It's a very amusing thought. Shame you don't live closer, or I would definitely invite you as my plus-one, and together we could bring anarchy unto my parents' house. 

...Sorry. I have no idea what I'm saying. I'm even more tired than you apparently are, I'm sure. 

Finals are coming up, you see, so I have lots of studying to do. And what with the recent death of Nelson Mandela, I have to help Amnesty work on their remembrance campaign. I'm in charge of the emphasis on his non-peaceful protests, since so many newspapers like to conveniently forget his career in guerrilla warfare. 

I definitely know what you mean about the buzz of just-finished-work gratification. I'm glad you're feeling it. 

Oh, and I meant to thank you for your gift suggestions for Joly. So far, he's been thrilled with them. I managed to come up with a few more things-- a massive collection of elaborately scented portable hand sanitisers, for example-- for later on, and I hope he likes them, too. Thank you very much. 

My secret Santa has, so far, given me a pair of socks patterned with the French flag, a set of nice Moleskine notebooks, and a book by Thomas Pynchon. I think it's Pontmercy. My secret Santa, I mean. These are all nice gifts, but don't have the Combeferre trademark of knowing exactly what I want. Courfeyrac would have only gotten me sex toys, Prouvaire would have provided me with some coupons, I think (he's too absentminded to buy gifts), and Joly accidentally let it slip that he's Combeferre's secret Santa. So, that only leaves Marius, and I think it's safe to assume it's him. 

Oh, and I know it really isn't my place to comment here, but should you really turn down opportunities that require you to leave Frouzins? That doesn't seem very... prudent. You need the work, and you want the attention. All that stands in your way is actually getting in a car, or a bus, and leaving. Whatever happened the last time you left can't be bad enough that it stops you from achieving things that you want to achieve this many years later. I mean, of course I don't know what you've been through, but from what I can guess, it's nothing that someone as (seemingly?) strong as you can't get over. Take the chances you are given, Grantaire, before they slip away. 

Feuilly sounds like a remarkable person. All your friends do, to be honest. 

Oh. Combeferre saw that my light was still on and just threatened to do painful things to my arms unless I went to bed and got some rest, so I'll finish this up. 

I hope the gallery thing in Toulouse went well. 

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

 

*** 

***

 

Dear Enjolras,

Hey, you can fuck right off with that noise about how you're sure I can get over with what happened. You don't even know what happened. People who do know what happened don't even try to tell me to get over it, because it was bad, and I don't want to talk about it right now, but you're right-- it's not your place to comment. 

That was really rude and I'm sorry but I'm up to two packs a day. Soooo stressed out. At least Bahorel keeps catching me every time I try to cut the filters off, or I'd really be in trouble with my lungs. 

Career is going well, but unsteadily. Turned down a couple more branching-out offers. "I only work locally," I tell them, and they whine at me about how I need to branch out, expand, reach more audiences. I ONLY WORK LOCALLY. That shouldn't be that hard to understand, should it? No means no, yeah? Yeah. 

Sigh. 

Sorry about the cigarette burn on the side of the paper. My hands were shaking when I got off the phone with a sponsor and I dropped the cigarette I had been lighting. 

I need a drink. Bahorel has hidden the alcohol (probably a good call, tbh). 

Anyway, gallery thing in Toulouse went well. The pretty girl sitting across from me on the bus invited me over to hers, and I was gonna go, but was too shaky after schmoozing with the rich and powerful and had to cancel on her. Boooo. 

Oh, yeah, gallery thing. Got a couple of commissions, sold some paintings for enough money that it'll keep me stable for a month or two, what with my current rate of smoking and drinking. Got my ass pinched twice by elderly ladies who had had too much champagne. (It wasn't even fancy.) (The champagne, not my ass. My ass is always fancy.)

Got a small feature in a local paper. 

And a professor I don't even have stopped me in the hall, told me to put out my cigarette (fuck no), and then complimented my work! How about that. 

I'm glad the secret Santa thing went well. Told you I was good at presents. And good call with the hand sanitiser. 

Your parents invited you to their holiday party?!?!?!?! Rad!! You should definitely go. Are you gonna go? You should. 

Since I can't be your plus-one, pretend I'm there anyway. Taking advantage of free booze and trying to pickpocket people. I am the dream date. At least I can dance, though-- I wouldn't be a total failure. Moms love me. (No, they don't. But they don't mind me.)

Let me know how it goes. I'm sure it'll be hilarious. 

Oh, man, thinking on it? Your Courfeyrac and I have so much in common. I was just considering what I would get your parents if I were your plus-one, and all I could come up with was "sex toys. Lots of them". Wow. 

I really don't have time to be writing to you right now, by the way. The tables have turned. Be honoured that I, a mildly-renowned artist (!!!!!!!!!) am taking time out of my social-butterfly schedule to not paint, no, but write to you. 

Yeah, I guess it's okay for me to call myself an artist now. 

I'm gonna take a few seconds to savour that. So should you. 

Grantaire, the artist. Mmmmmm. 

To prove that I am an artist, I have drawn you a cat in the margins. Don't ask me why it has seven legs and three wings. I'm an artist. I'm allowed to be eccentric. 

Now, I'm gonna go work on commissions with High School Musical (French dub, boo, because I obviously can't understand the original American version, and the subtitles distract me, and if I try to sing along in English, Bahorel throws stuff at me, and he's a good shot) playing in the background. 

Whom are you gonna kiss for New Year's Eve? ;) You gotta plan early, man, or all your friends will kiss each other and you'll be left awkwardly alone. Trust me. Plan ahead. 

Yeah, Feuilly's my hero! He's so cool. 

He can tie a bowtie. 'Nuff said. 

Okay, time to go work. 

SHIT. I'VE BEEN MISSING ACTUAL WORK. FUCK. FUCK! FUCK. 

FUCK. 

I'm gonna call my various bosses, and THEN I'm gonna watch HSM and paint. 

TTYL!

-Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooooohhhh spooooky and next time y'all are gonna get a lot more information than you ever wanted so be ready for that  
> (i told you not to get attached to happy!r......)


	18. Letters, 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear R, Sorry for overstepping a boundary-- as I'm sure I did-- but I can't help getting frustrated with you over this. And I know that I don't know what happened. If you want to tell me, since you're so convinced that it was the end of the world and locked you in at home forever, go ahead-- prove me wrong about your being able to move past it. 
> 
> Or you can just run from it. Again. How do you expect to ever get over it at all if you can't even talk about it?"  
> "Dear Enjolras, You want to hear the whole fucking story?
> 
> Fine. 
> 
> Here we go."  
> Letters, 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd love to say i'm sorry but i'm really actually not  
> presented mostly without comment except the usual: i thrive off feedback, the official blog is lettersfromenjolrasandgrantaire come talk to it, thanks for reading.  
> warning for slurs and sadness. enjoy and let me know what you thought, pls! kiss kiss!!

Dear R,

Sorry for overstepping a boundary-- as I'm sure I did-- but I can't help getting frustrated with you over this. You've always wanted this kind of attention for your art, as far as I can tell, and no matter what happened to you, you cannot allow your past to take over your future. If you never take risks in your life, you'll never get anywhere. I repeat-- you can't let this pass you by. You don't want my advice, I'm sure, but I think the next time someone offers you a job that's farther out of town than Toulouse, you should take them up on it. I don't understand why anyone would allow a few bad memories to destroy a promising career. Because your career is promising, and you could do so much if you only allowed yourself to take a leap of faith here. 

Again, I know it's none of my business. You don't have to listen to my advice, and I'm sure you won't, but please at least try to make reasonable choices here. 

And I know that I don't know what happened. If you want to tell me, since you're so convinced that it was the end of the world and locked you in at home forever, go ahead-- prove me wrong about your being able to move past it. 

Or you can just run from it. Again. How do you expect to ever get over it at all if you can't even talk about it?

Okay. I've probably upset you, now, and I'm sorry. I'm not going to use the "I'm awful at picking up social cues" excuse, even though it's true. At this point, I am just genuinely frustrated with your unwillingness to seize the day. 

Moving on. 

Two packs a day? I must say, I'm impressed. And worried. But that's a considerable amount of tobacco you're ingesting there. Save Combeferre, I don't think I know anyone else who could manage that. 

I liked the drawing of the cat. You're good at drawing cats. And don't worry about the eccentricity; like you said, you're an artist. You're allowed now. 

Yes, I've made up my mind to go to my parents' holiday party. I hope they haven't invited any right-wing politicians this year again, or it won't end well. I don't usually drink (or ever) but even I might need some liquid encouragement to brave this affair. 

I'm taking Courfeyrac as my plus-one, just to mix things up. He claims to have always wanted to go to one of my parents' holiday parties. And he's promised not to flirt too hard with my mother. Or my father. 

Although it might give them enough of a shock that they'll stop bothering me about my never letting them meet my friends. 

I'll have to dress extra-nice, though. I'll have to get one of my nicer suits laundered. I'm not sure when I'll have time for that, but the party is in two weeks. I'll think of something. 

Oh, and I do have to get a gift. Your similarities to Courfeyrac are worrying. I will not be getting my parents sex toys for Christmas. Probably just another set of expensive kitchenware. 

My secret Santa has, since I last wrote, given me a biography of Napoleon (yes, it's definitely Marius) and a box of artisanal chocolates. I don't even like chocolate that much. Still, I'm not complaining. What with forgetting to eat whilst studying for finals, I do need the boost in blood sugar. 

I have no plans to kiss anyone on New Year's Eve. Whom do you plan to kiss? I wasn't aware it was something that needed planning. 

Oh, and I can't dance at all. Courfeyrac can, though, and just to spoil the image that my parents strive to achieve at their party, I'll probably force myself to dance with him anyway. 

Congratulations on finally allowing yourself the label of 'artist'. When I first allowed myself to self-identify as an activist, I remember feeling wonderful about it, too. 

It's fairly cold in Paris at the moment. Half my friends have caught cold. I'll surely be next. What's the weather like in Frouzins?

Write back soon etc.,

Enjolras

 

***

***

 

Dear Enjolras,

You want to hear the whole fucking story?

Fine. 

Here we go. 

When I was growing up-- super religious, remember?-- I knew I didn't only like girls. In preschool, I tried to kiss cute little Irma, but also cute little Cesar. Once I grew old enough to where my parents had to point out to me that boys are only allowed to like girls, I wised up and kept quiet about my thoughts on boys. 

I didn't date in Catholic school. That is to say, I didn't date. I mean, every now and then, I would take a girl to a dance, kiss her once quick close-mouthed don't let the nuns see, but that was it. 

And then, I suddenly realised I was in love with my best friend. 

His name was Felix. He spelled it Félix. I refused to do that, but he didn't mind. He was two years older than me, and lived two blocks away. We'd been friends for a long time, and when I was fifteen years old, I realised I was in love with him. 

I kept quiet about it, then. Didn't want it to turn into a scandal, didn't want Mom and Dad to find out and shame me. Didn't want to confess my sins to a priest who would tell on me-- so I made sure there were no sins to confess. 

When I turned sixteen, Felix got me drunk for the first time. 

We were in his house. I didn't want to be near my parents. I didn't want to be near anyone except him. I think he'd already started to figure out that I was queer, but we hadn't talked about it. So, I trusted myself around him, and I trusted him. I let him get me drunk, because it was better than any half-assed celebration my parents could have come up with. 

I was drunk, and I told him everything. I tried to kiss him. 

I don't remember much beyond that. I woke up in his bed, but he'd slept on the floor. He told me he was too honourable to take advantage of me. 

I asked him if he loved me back, and he said yes. 

So we started a secret relationship. Sending dirty texts during class, terrified a nun would see and take the phone and find everything out. Quick, messy makeouts in the back of his car when we were sure no one would see. 

I told my parents we were best friends. They believed me. They liked Felix, anyway. Our families had always been friends, so everyone was glad that we were getting so close. 

We fucked for the first time on my seventeenth birthday. Nothing spectacular. But it happened. 

We somehow managed to keep on keeping our relationship a secret. Kept almost getting caught-- stayed together anyway. God, I loved him. God, he was so manipulative. I didn't even want to do half the shit he did, but did it anyway, because I loved him so much, and he was so scary when he was angry. 

When I graduated from high school, he suggested I take a gap year. He had no plans to go to college, so we could go together. 

I worked it out with my parents. 

We went to Bordeaux. 

The car broke down on the way, and Felix and I had a fight about changing the tyre, and that should have been my first warning. 

The whole trip was the beginning of my interest in art. I had to paint to get us a little money, so we could afford motels instead of hostels, and I was so in love with Felix it hurt sometimes. 

The whole trip itself wasn't that eventful. We would fight, sometimes, and sometimes we wouldn't sleep together, and sometimes he would just vanish and I would raid the minibar. (I wasn't hooked on liquor yet, but I was getting there.) I loved him. I was willing to take anything for his sake. 

He never wanted to hold hands in public unless it was dark outside, though. I told him that it shouldn't matter-- we were far away from anyone who could recognise us-- but it mattered to him anyway. 

I did good art. Who knows what he did. 

(I burned almost all the paintings I did in Bordeaux when we got back to Frouzins, though. None of them were that good.)

The year went by. We started fighting more, over smaller things. 

And, when time came for us to head back to Frouzins so I could spend the summer prepping for college, it happened. 

The fight started out small. I had wanted to kiss him outside before getting into the car, or something, and he had pushed me away. And we'd started having the Talk as he drove. You know, the Talk about "what are we, why can't we be together, are you ashamed of me or something."

He kept saying, "But I love you. We just spent a year together. Isn't that enough for you?"

And I kept telling him no. I wanted more. Sure, he said he loved me, and he would fuck me behind locked doors, but I wanted more. I wanted to hold his hand and not feel afraid. I wanted him to help me come out to my parents. To the community. 

Yeah, he didn't like that idea at all. We'd had this conversation before, sure, but I'd never taken it far enough to suggest that we come out. 

"We?" he said. "What do you mean, 'we' come out? I don't need to come out. I'm not a

Hang on. 

 

_[in slightly messier handwriting]_

"I don't need to come out," he said. "I'm not a FAG, like you."

Ten miles away from Frouzins, he kicked me out of the car and left me roadside. 

"Is it over?" I asked him as he shoved my bags into my hands. 

"Is what over?" he asked, like nothing had ever happened between us, and drove away. 

No cars were willing to pick up hitchhikers that time of night. 

I got back to Frouzins the next day, practically starving, craving a drink, craving Felix. I was tired and cold enough that I thought he'd been joking, or it had all been a dream. 

It was a Sunday. So I went to church, just in time to catch the end of the sermon and head off to communion. 

My parents greeted me-- not particularly warmly-- but didn't ask why Felix and I had arrived separately. 

Oh, and Felix was there. At communion. I got into line beside him, and smiled, and he ignored me. 

I realised it hadn't been a dream, and suddenly got really scared. 

When it came his turn to accept the body and blood of Christ, he did, and then turned to watch me accept mine. 

"Don't give that to him, Father," he told the priest. His voice was soft. The room went quiet. 

I'll never forget this.

I'll never forget this. 

He said, "Don't give the body and blood of Christ who died for us to a degenerate like him."

He said, "That boy is a homosexual."

He said, "That boy is a poison to our community, and he's been lying to us from the start of his cursed life."

I may never be able to forget that, but I can't remember what happened next. I woke up the next day with the worst hangover I've ever had, and I decided I should kill myself. The house was empty. I went to the medicine cabinet, took a few things, and crawled off to die. 

I woke up later on to my mother's frowning face. 

My mouth was bone-dry and I couldn't speak or move as she carefully told me that my father didn't want to speak to me, and that neither did she, but she had to reprimand me for stealing her medicine. 

She didn't tell me that she didn't want me as her son anymore, but I felt it. 

She left after that. 

In the doorway, she told me not to bother coming to church anymore. 

"You know they won't want someone like you there, anyway," she said. 

"One of your kind," she said, "won't really be welcome there."

After that, it's all a blur. I started smoking and drinking like there was no tomorrow, because I didn't want there to be. My mother was polite to me in a cursory sort of way. My father barely acknowledged my presence. They were both killed in a car crash two months later, but that's another story. 

I saw Felix after that only once. Almost six months later, he came into the toy shop where I'd started to work after drinking away a good half of my parents' life insurance money and spending the rest on dumb shit I didn't need. He had a pregnant girl holding his hand, and they bought baby rattles. 

He didn't even acknowledge that I was his cashier. He just... handed over the money and left. 

Oh, and needless to say I became an atheist after that. I'd been told my whole life that 'God is love' and 'we are all God's children', but the priests who had been teaching me that my whole life wouldn't even make eye contact with me when I greeted them on the streets. 

I wasn't allowed to go back to church, either. 

Which is why I see religion as such a joke. What a joke. A very, very sad joke. 

So, after spending the summer depressed, suicidal, and estranged from my family, I started college. Soon enough, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Bossuet approached me, and we started an Angry Queers Against The World type of support group/friend group. I got better after that. 

 

That was the only time I've ever left Frouzins beyond Toulouse. 

I was shunned from my community, hated by my own family, and betrayed by the person I thought I loved most and could trust most in the whole world. 

You have to understand why I'm reluctant to leave again. 

So that's the whole fucking story. You convinced enough yet?

-Grantaire


End file.
